


leporine dreams

by 님 (nymmiah)



Series: cunicular hope [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Character Study, Drabble Collection, Final Fantasy XIV: Heavensward Spoilers, Gen, M/M, Male Viera Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Non-Linear Narrative, Touch-averse Warrior of Light, Unnamed Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:21:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 40
Words: 24,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25244566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nymmiah/pseuds/%EB%8B%98
Summary: A series of non-linear drabbles exploring the concept of a male Viera WoL. Primarily focused on his interactions with certain Elezen lords.Purely self-indulgent. Irregular updates to be expected. Formerly called "Leporine Musings".
Relationships: Alphinaud Leveilleur & Warrior of Light, Aymeric de Borel/Warrior of Light, Haurchefant Greystone/Warrior of Light, Tataru Taru & Warrior of Light
Series: cunicular hope [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1831447
Comments: 61
Kudos: 68





	1. Heaven-sent [Haurchefant]

**Author's Note:**

> I started playing this game less than three weeks ago. I'm still working through HW and I am in denial.
> 
> Headcanons will eventually be introduced. Ratings may change depending on what filth I write.

Mayhaps it was the sheer silence of his being that had drawn his eyes to the Warrior of Light--that enigmatic bearing of his features, or that solemn air that clung to the apathy of his countenance.

The Warrior bore the likeness of a hero of eld--nay, it was the likeness of a statue of said hero of eld, impassable and immovable. The chiselled contours of his face and arms were surely sculpted by Halone Herself, for he bore the mantle of a hero in a manner that bespoke of divine anointment.

He had been awe-inspiring since Haurchefant’s first glance. It was with that first glance that he had been arrested henceforth.

Nary a word had the Warrior spoken in Haurchefant’s presence since their first meeting--his lips pressed into a firm and unshakable line as the elezen youth, Alphinaud, spoke of their mission to find the  _ Enterprise _ . Haurchefant would freely admit to his boundless curiosity as to the Warrior’s thoughts. Those eyes of his--crystalline green, a delicate colour that belied the gaping crevasse of which they held, an abyssal trench that bespoke of levin thoughts.

What thoughts swirled within that head of his? What voice had the gods bestowed upon him? From his countenance alone dripped hymns and poetry, nevertheless the deeds that he had achieved.

He was heaven-sent, and Haurchefant was a devout man.


	2. Rapture [Aymeric]

Aymeric had heard of Viera before, that they were a secretive and rare race that hid within the jungles of Golmore in southern Orthard--but never before had he heard of a  _ male _ Viera that ventured out from within those jealously guarded woods.

And yet, here he was. The man before him was surely Viera. There could be no other explanation for the leporine ears that jutted from the man’s crown, unless they were a cleverly crafted counterfeit.

Each step that Aymeric took bore him closer to the Warrior. It became obvious that the Warrior stood even taller than his own six fulms, that the corded muscle of his arms was surely broader than Aymeric’s own--surely sculpted by heavy use of the longbow that lay across his back. The Warrior could be mistaken for an extremely tall hyur, had it not been for the twitch of those curious ears betraying the all-too-real nature of his race.

It seemed fitting that the so-called Warrior of Light was painted within the countenance of a rare being.

Closer still his feet brought him to the Warrior; he could see that his eyes were the green of leaves dappled in sunlight. It was then that Aymeric could understand Haurchefant’s rapture with the man.


	3. Cocoa [Haurchefant]

It was in the depth of the night, sitting atop the highest tower of Camp Dragonhead, that he heard the Warrior speak for the first time.

For all that his words arrested him in their suddenness, he noted belatedly that for all that it was a gravelly voice, it was only broken in a manner that betrayed the length of the man’s silence. It was a voice that was unused to speech. That he would speak now was--something he would revel in in the privacy of his own company.

“--You would call me a friend,” the Warrior groused, his quiet voice stolen by the wind that caressed their faces. His voice was surprisingly light for a man of his stature, the gruffness of his words steadily wearing away into a rich husk. “Foolish.”

Haurchefant smiled--nay, he beamed at the Warrior that stood before him, unable to hold back his delight that the Warrior would direct words to him regardless of their content. “Foolish? How could one be foolish to consider you a friend, when you have done nothing but good will towards mineself and my men?”

The Warrior lapsed into silence once more, his countenance facing the east. His brow was furrowed, and his profile was striking. The frost-tipped fur of his ears swayed with the wind. “Good will bought with coin.”

“A hero would not go so far for coin alone,” Haurchefant was quick to deny, turning to fully face the Warrior with a passionate trill to his words. “You have done far more for my friend than any adventurer would—and your deeds hath revealed the glorious soul that resides within you!”

The Warrior shook his head. “... I would sooner notch an arrow into your heart than to aid you unpaid.”

“Ah—but you have already! You’ve fired an arrow of ardour into mine breast with your deeds, Warrior of Light.” Haurchefant’s smile returned, and he tilted his head forwards, regarding the viera in all of his solemn stolidity.

The Warrior’s expression didn’t change from its chiselled-marble state, but his eyes of verdant forests remained fixed upon Haurchefant’s for some time. A heart’s beat later, the cooled mug of cocoa that Haurchefant had brewed for him was finally raised to his lips.

Haurchefant would later recall the fluttering of the Warrior’s lashes with unabashed delight, and secret the surprised moux that had crossed his visage deep within his heart.

Evidently, t’was his first, but surely not his last, taste of chocolate.


	4. Services Rendered [Haurchefant]

It was to be expected that the Warrior of Light would be just as silent in his room as he was outside of it.

Haurchefant, however, was up to the task of filling the silence with words. He smiled at the Warrior, enraptured by the beguiling gleam of his eyes, reaching out to take hold of his hand. He sighed out the Warrior’s name, an ardent and pious prayer that pleaded to be received.

“I could scarcely believe mine own ears when you turned up to take up my offer,” he murmured, pressing his lips to the scarred knuckles of the Warrior’s hand. “My bed is eternally yours, my friend, and I would do mine best to be your gracious host. What would you have of me?”

The Warrior’s eyes were fixed upon their joined hands, lips set into a stern frown. Further inspection revealed the furrow between his brows, the countenance of careful consideration set upon his divine features.

Haurchefant fastidiously held onto the facade of patience, for all that a bubbling anticipation grew within the pit of his chest. He ran his fingers over the Warrior’s hand, emboldening in his touch when the viera failed to voice any disapproval. He wrapped his hand around that strong wrist, feeling how it flexed as the Warrior clenched his fist.

The action drew Haurchefant’s eye to the Warrior’s neck, to the tense lines of his shoulders. And oh, how bards would doubtlessly sing of the arches of his arms! There was something entirely primal in the strength evident within the viera’s body, for all that his stunning musculature lay hidden beneath the layers upon layers of his armour.

He leaned in, watching as the Warrior lifted his chin, the apple of his neck bobbing in an inexplicably arresting manner.

“If you haven’t any particular desire…” Haurchefant finally said, breaking the silence that had settled upon their shoulders. “Mayhaps I could suggest something?”

The viera remained silent, though Haurchefant expected it. There seemed to be a nervousness laying within him, as the Warrior clenched his jaw. It brought out his cheekbones in a stark relief, drawing the eye to the masculine beauty of his features. The subsequent nod—birdlike in its speed—that came after had the elezen lord smiling.

“I would have you undressed, ‘pon my bed,” he began with excitement evident in the brightness of his eyes. The Warrior’s expression had darkened, ilm by ilm, with each word he spoke. “Lain out upon your front, such that I may place my hands on your shoulders and back. For all that I have invited you into my bed, I must needs see to the tension of your back first—that would be far more pleasurable to you and I in this current moment. What say you, my friend?”

The viera looked perplexed by this time. His throat’s apple bobbed once more, this time in clear preparation to speak. “You mean to say…?” His words were velveteen, much as the first time Haurchefant had heard him speak.

“That I would service you by massaging the aches from your back? Indeed!” Haurchefant reached up to place his hands upon the viera’s shoulders. “Believe you me, nothing would give me greater pleasure than to have you relax by my hand. However, if you’d rather I bed you outright—as I have said, I am fully and utterly at your disposal.”

The Warrior shook his head, seemingly as if to deny Haurchefant.

“That…” The Warrior’s voice had returned to a familiar gruffness. “That is fine with me. Do as you have suggested.”

Upon Haurchefant’s countenance bloomed a rosy smile. The viera looked away.

Ushering the Warrior to his bed posthaste, Haurchefant was quick to move to a chest of drawers to the side of the room. He pulled off his chain and his leathers, disrobing himself enough so that his armour wouldn’t get in the way of their promised activity. Setting his armour down upon their usual rests, he turned to see that the Warrior had removed solely the clothing that had previously covered his chest.

“Lay down, Warrior!” Haurchefant bade, a giddiness lent to his words by the swelling joy in his breast. “Make yourself as comfortable as needs be, and I shall be with you in a moment.”

He opened a drawer to retrieve a small bottle of oil; a tincture, to be precise, imbued with the warmth of some fiery flower from the south. Hurrying over to the Warrior’s side, Haurchefant was not oblivious to the constancy of the Warrior’s gaze, wary and cautious as he ever was.

“This,” he began, “may feel warmer than you’d expect. The alchemist that made this assured me that it soothes aches and muscles like nothing else. Pray—are you allergic to this?” He asked suddenly, divulging the name of the flower in question.

The viera, upon hearing the name, shook his head and his entire bearing seemed to relax. Evidently, he had heard of such a flower in his lifetime, as long or as short as it may have been. With a roll of his shoulders, the Warrior then turned his head and closed his eyes. It was a quiet show of surrender, allowing Haurchefant liberty to act as he willed.

Such trust was doubtlessly not granted to just anyone.

The elezen’s smile grew as he approached, fingers all but trembling with emotion. He was overcome by the affection and delight within him; the viera could surely feel his nervousness as his oiled hands came to rest upon the broad planes of his back.

Haurchefant counted the span of his back from left to right shoulder; three hands’ width with his fingers spread. Scars littered his skin, and curiously, tufts of fur the same colour as his hair ran down the length of the Warrior’s spine. His back was gloriously corded with muscle, stronger than any archer’s to which Haurchefant had borne witness, revealing minutely the strength that had allowed the Warrior to take down primal after heretic after primal.

The Warrior surely deserved every word of praise that could be spoken.

“One day, you must needs recount the stories behind these scars to me, my friend,” Haurchefant murmured, mindlessly filling the air as he bent over the viera’s back, smoothing oil over his skin with reverent fingers. “I dread to think of what fearsome foe could have left such vicious scars upon thine skin, and I shall ache with impotent envy that I could have been by your side…”

A soft huff left the viera’s lips, ambiguous as to whether it was from pain or pleasure, as Haurchefant dug his knuckles in, steadily and fastidiously working out the knots and whorls that so painted his muscles.

Twelve bells could have passed, but Haurchefant would not have noticed. He was wholly enraptured by his work, the subtle burn upon his palms, the knead of his knuckles against sinuous muscle and skin. By the time his hands had come to rest upon the base of the Warrior’s spine, he found that the candles had burnt low and the hero had fallen asleep, his breathing steady and expression beatific in its divine peace.

“And would that I could join you in your dreams, for you must dream of glorious battle and a gods-given wonder,” Haurchefant whispered, even as he drew sheets over the viera. “Sleep well, mine Warrior of Light.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eventually I'll write a chapter from the Warrior's POV. For now, I'm really chuffed w/ Haurchefant and Aymeric's perspectives.
> 
> Haurchefant, for all his flirting, is more than aware of the viera's discomfort with touch. He does his best to compromise and to please the viera, and the viera responds to that whether knowingly or not.


	5. Curiosity [Aymeric]

“I must beg your pardon for the audacity of mine question,” Aymeric began, unable to hold back his curiosity even in this moment of tension, wherein they awaited on the icy wastelands for any sign of heretics, “but what brings a viera so far from his homelands to Eorzea?”

The Warrior, predictably, remained silent.

He looked at Aymeric with a stare that could easily be compared to that of a coeurl, verdant eyes as sharp as the arrows that he so deftly used. His countenance was stony, much akin to the statues that lined the walls and streets of Ishgard.

The silence remained between them long enough that Aymeric parted his lips to plead forgiveness for asking such a question when the viera spoke.

“I know not.”

Aymeric blinked, surprised that the Warrior deemed his question worthy of a verbal answer. “You know not?” He repeated. “Surely there was some reason for which you left Orthard—”

“I remember nothing of mine past.” The viera stated brusquely, his words cutting Aymeric’s own short. “Ask the crystal if you want answers. Not I.”

The crystal—did the Warrior mean the Mother Crystal herself?

Aymeric lapsed off into an uneasy silence once more, looking away from the Viera. To have no memory of one’s life; was that what it meant to be the Warrior of Light?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To explain the WoL's lack of skill at the beginning of the game, my mind has fixated on the idea that the WoL has forgotten their past. They know nothing of what brought them to that point; they only know the weapon in their hands.


	6. Inexplicable [Aymeric]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It begins. Nothing too explicit this time. Definitely will change.

The Warrior’s muscular thighs were a vice around his hips, and the hands in his hair were chains keeping him still. Pulled away from the neck that he had so eagerly devoured, Aymeric found himself panting, a man at sea desperate for air.

“You are—entirely impossible,” Aymeric whispered, opening his eyes to gaze into eyes that seemed greener than summer’s leaves in the blank white canvas of Coerthas. “Words defy me when I try to explain you. You are magnificent, beyond that of being the Warrior of Light. You are beyond description.”

The viera’s countenance was flushed a most enchanting red as he looked away. The fingers in his hair loosened enough that Aymeric could lean in, gaze closer upon his features. His brows were furrowed in a rare display of self-consciousness, of emotion that was beyond stolidity.

Mayhaps it was his perch upon Aymeric’s lap that had him so uncharacteristically flustered, their hips pressed flush to one another to behold an intimacy beyond that which was shared between shield-brothers. Mayhaps it was the wine that had loosened his tight grip on his emotions, leaving him intoxicated and vulnerable. Mayhaps it was the friction between their flesh, the heat building up within the pit of his stomach not unlike ardour. Aymeric would surely see him like this again, and with repetition would the truth eventually arise.

He put the matter to the side, for now he was content in chasing after the Warrior’s lips, his hand raised to grasp his chin to kiss him firmly.

The slow crush of lips against his own, the warmth of the Warrior's breath against his cheek, the butterfly's kiss of lashes against his own--and this, too, was something inexplicable.

This intimate lover’s embrace had never been particularly appealing to the Lord Commander. He had ever sought stability and power to prove himself, and he'd cared not for finding himself a lover when there was yet so much to do, so innumerable a number of tasks to be done. Yet the thin line of the viera’s lips, roughened by the icy winds of Coerthas, was something he sought after time and time again; hungrily hunted down and caught by words and touch.

His other hand tightened its grip against the Warrior's thigh, feeling how the muscle rippled under his touch as his hips thrust forward, bringing their flesh into contact with a glorious friction.

Aymeric moaned into the hollow of the Warrior's mouth. The viera whispered his name in response, a hushed sigh that lingered all too briefly.

Those levin-bright green eyes were closed, his countenance once more phlegmatic for all that his skin was ruddy with an erotic glow.

With the memory of his name on the Warrior's lips, Aymeric would reach his peak, calling out his name with a reckless abandon as befitting a fervent worshipper of his divine deity.


	7. Romantic Aspirations [Aymeric]

Aymeric stared at the Warrior, disbelieving that which he had just heard. "You intend to bed me, and nothing else?" He repeated, for the lack of words to beg for clarity.

There was heartbreak lain hidden within his words, for mere moments earlier Aymeric had laid plain his intent on courting the Warrior. To ply him with gifts and romance into a steady courtship, as was proper in the Ishgardian way. The Warrior had rejected such an intent with a curt shake of his head, distaste marring the flat line of his lips.

Aymeric turned his head to the side, summoning whatever dredges of composure that he could gather.

"It is not what I need." The viera intoned, as cold and as harsh as the statues that he so oft resembled. "All of this extraneous..." he trailed off, evidently unable to decide upon a proper term for courtship.

T'was for the sole fact that Aymeric had practiced time and time again the ability to tuck away his heart that allowed him to breathe through the disappointment and the ache of a heart unrequited.

And it was for that sole fact that in that moment that it came to mind how the viera of Orthard comported themselves; specifically how the men would live separate to their women, silent yet fierce protectors that revealed themselves only every few years to their clanswomen. It was--no wonder that the Warrior of Light would be so abhorrent of the idea of romance. It was not a part of his culture, his being.

For viera to bed--they were considered to be a part of the same clan. Surely that would mean that the Warrior, to some extent, considered him kin?

Aymeric drew forward, spurred on by some unknown will. His heart beat within him a fierce tattoo, the thunderous wings of a thousand dragons. "It is what  _ I  _ need," he stated boldly. "I would have your hand. You will not be a kept man, but I would have your hand if you were to have my bed."

The Warrior's grimace darkened, the furrow between his brows deepening in thought.

"My lands will be your lands. My hearth will be your hearth. Thine already hath my heart, else I would offer you that too, paltry an offer as it may be," the Lord Commander continued, reaching out to touch his fingertips to the Warrior's hand as it clenched and released. "I would have you free, to roam as you please, but in full knowledge that only you would darken my threshold. What say you, Warrior?"

As ever, a silence lapsed over them both. Aymeric's fingers closed over the Warrior's.

"I will not be a good lover." The viera finally spoke. He closed his crystalline eyes. "Do not expect much from me."

Aymeric's countenance broke into a smile as he leaned in, resting his mien against the Warrior's own.

"You will astonish as you always do. I should hardly need to expect a thing from you," he promised quietly, entangling his fingers with the Warrior's.

The absence of any protest, and the tightening of fingers around his own, bespoke of the Warrior's acquiesce.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Romance is Aymeric's forte. It is not in the viera's realm of comfort at all.


	8. Sowing Seeds [Haurchefant]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised filth. This is a little more spicy than Ch. 6 (Inexplicable).

The Warrior had stood by the door to his chambers when Haurchefant experienced what was no doubt apoplexy for the first time in his life.

"Excuse me?" He asked, torn between aghast and horror. Had he heard the Warrior of Light correctly?

"You said you would allow me anything, as my gracious host. I would breed you, and fill you with my seed."

... That was exactly what Haurchefant thought he had heard.

The elezen lord let out a gusty exhale, full of turmoil and--admittedly, not a small amount of amusement. Nay, mayhaps that was the wrong term to use. _Exasperation_ was much truer a description of the emotions coiled within his breast.

"I would not deny you a single thing, my friend," Haurchefant said lightly, "but you _are_ surely aware that I am no maiden? No matter how much… ah, seed you sow, no child you would beget from mine loins."

It was at this moment that the viera's expression had sharpened, bringing into stark relief the stern set of his jaw and the crystalline green of his eyes. He moved forward, slowly, each step carefully placed. "I am aware. It is…" The Warrior let out a scoff. "You are the only option I have. Alphinaud is too young and Tataru is far too small. She would break 'neath me."

Haurchefant stifled his laughter at the blandly spoken statement. Indeed she would; the Warrior stood more than three times her height, and his girth was imposing, even for elezen such as himself. He moved forth, walking up to the Warrior with a tender gaze upon his face and an open hand, reaching out for his.

"Might I ask why the sudden demand?" The elezen asked, even as the viera unhesitatingly took his hand. "You have shown no great inclination for carnal acts, save for our occasional dalliance after some daring battle." And they'd never gotten past more than mutual touching, the Warrior's lips against his own as he gasped out praises and worship.

The Warrior's jaw clenched, bringing Haurchefant's eye to it once more. The lines of his neck were embossed in that motion, a tantalising guide to the musculature of his chest.

"Seasonal." T'was the sole word that the Warrior spoke before he took hold of Haurchefant's face with his free hand, fingers covering his mouth. So silenced, the knight of House Fortemps allowed with a placid smile the viera pushing him back towards his bed.

Haurchefant would have continued to ask to know what was meant by seasonal lust, had he not become the sole object of rapture of this divine creature, surely sent by the Fury herself into his arms.

This would be the first time he would see the Warrior fully undressed, each line of his body exquisitely sinful in its seduction. Unclothed, it became obvious that his size was no illusion cast by his clothing. He was broad, he was solid, he was hard against Haurchefant's groin.

Haurchefant buried his fingers into frost-tipped hair and he kissed firm lips with as much tenderness as could be afforded, even as the Warrior buried his fingers into him, oil-slicked and hungry.

For all the ice that gripped Coerthas, Haurchefant now burned with an ardent fire, a spark lit by the hands holding him down and the man between his legs.

The Warrior's weight crushed him down onto the mattress, his member pressed relentlessly against his thigh. Upon trial, Haurchefant's fingers could only just wrap around his girth, the Warrior sighing into his mouth as he did so.

There were no words after that.

The Warrior was a greedy lover, taking him countless times. Haurchefant was no less giving, allowing himself to be taken, over and over; he was pressed onto his stomach, he was bent upon the mattress, and each time the Warrior would grunt, thrust those mighty hips and spill himself within Haurchefant. The Warrior's seed coated his thighs and his sheets in a volume that could only be described as impossible.

Mayhaps the Warrior was truly trying to fill Haurchefant up with his seed; he had never felt so full before.

How much more would be required to sate the Warrior's appetite? It seemed insatiable; Haurchefant nearly despaired at the thought of being locked underneath the Warrior of Light, endless pleasure melding with the ache between his legs.

Nevertheless, there was a challenge to be faced in this, some beast to conquer. It would surely be only by Halone's mercy and will that he would last against such an endless onslaught.

It seemed like an eternity before the Warrior let out a plaintive sound, his hips finally stilling against Haurchefant's. He slowly pulled out, leaving within Haurchefant not emptiness but far too much seed for any one man to produce. His forehead pressed against the elezen's, and their breaths mingled much like their legs were now tangled.

Weakly, Haurchefant reached up to curl his hands against the viera's shoulders. They were slick with sweat; surely the both of them required a long bathe. However, his legs would most certainly fail him at that moment, and the Warrior himself was in no state to move.

The viera was trembling above him, eyes distant with his visage slack, and Haurchefant smoothed his hands out against his back, beckoning him in to rest more fully against him. They could ignore any discomfort in the moment; Haurchefant wanted the Warrior to return to him.

"... I can see why such lust would arrive so seasonally. I could not quickly recover from such vigorous breeding," Haurchefant quipped, when his voice had returned to him. "We were both most magnificent in surviving such an ordeal, would you not agree, Warrior mine?"

The Warrior continue to speak not a word, eyes closing as he breathed heavily through his nose.

The bell struck thrice. Haurchefant fastidiously thought naught of his day to begin in a mere two bells' time. He ran his hand through the Warrior's hair, shifting as best as he could upon the bed sheets.

"Come, take a sip of this water and we shall rest," he bade sweetly to his divine love, whose lost countenance had gradually shifted to a lethargic awareness. "Let us talk when we both awaken."


	9. Betrayal [The Warrior]

The death of the sultana, wrongly laid upon his shoulders. The sudden awareness of what exactly Riol had begun to uncover with Milred's unwitting zeal--and the disgusting smugness that had painted Ilberd's countenance upon its reveal.

The Rising Stones, barred to him--

The Scions, all but dead for they were out of his reach--

The mantle of Warrior of Light yet laying across his shoulders--

Betrayal and rage coursed through his veins as he trudged through the snow, the chill setting in deep into his bones. Alphinaud shivered at his side; it was only for the severity of the past day's events that had him draw the boy into his side and under his cloak shielding him from the cold wind. He could shield the boy yet from the world.

Alphinaud was the only one left of the Scions. Garlond and his two assistants were yet safe. Camp Dragonhead lay before them, where Haurchefant would doubtlessly await them.

The Warrior had no memories of being viera, yet there was a deep and innate fury within him at the loss of his lands--of what he now knew he considered clan.

For all that he had come to the Scions in search for coin, each fight had bought his loyalty shred by shred.

Ilberd and Lolorito would lay dead before him one day, and he would tear them asunder. There would be no slow death that awaited them, they who had violated him so effectively.

But now was not the time for vengeance.

Alphinaud's fingers had twisted into the cloth of his vest, brittle with cold and exhaustion.

Never would they speak of how his own hands covered Alphinaud's, holding him tightly in the privacy of winter's cloak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loyalty to one's clan: it is the only thing that the viera holds fast to, beyond all else. Though originally, he had come to the Scions for coin and for answers--he has come to care for them deeply as he would bloodkin.


	10. Winter Coats and Summer Hares [Haurchefant]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set some unspecified time after Ch.8 (Sowing Seeds).  
> I promised irregular updates but wow my head is buzzing with ideas and my hands are typing without end.

Haurchefant's delighted laughter was the second thing that announced his arrival in the bathhouse where he sat, enjoying the subtle cloak of the steam rising from the coals he had only just wetted. The first had been the clattering of his boots against the wooden floor, the cacophony of sounds that accompanied the carefree discarding of one’s armour.

"You've black hair underneath all the white! I've always thought you to be white haired, but I see clearly that that is not the case," the elezen announced. The sound of hasty footsteps told him how Haurchefant quickly approached. It was for that reason the Warrior startled not when two hands took hold of his shoulders, pushing aside his wet hair to reveal the fur upon his back. "Is this, too, seasonal?" The lord asked, words too full of guile to be anything but mischief.

The lord hearkened back to the excruciating fire that had consumed the Warrior for a day and a night, struggling to find some manner or way to output the reckless energy of his rut. A maddening need to spread his seed; he would rather not experience such a consuming lust ever again but he was resigned to it: it would surely return within five winters' time.

… He was irritated by the memory.

He was infuriated by the man who reminded him of it.

Haurchefant was maddening; his voice was grating in its cadence and his mannerisms too free. The Warrior stayed put regardless, unresisting as the man continued to touch and push aside his hair, continued to comb his fingers and nails through his fur. 

Those fingers ran down the length of his spine, stopping where his tailbone ended.

For all that the steam had warmed his bones, Haurchefant's touch coaxed embers to life, leaving simmering coals where his fingers roamed. Leylines of fire, drawn by the careless touch of the elezen lord. 

"Coerthas is cold," the viera finally spoke. "La Noscea is not."

"Ah, so it is the  _ seasons _ that so influence your colouring," Haurchefant remarked with an idle wonder in his words. A slender chest pressed against his back, arms going around his waist. The lord leaned against him fully; the Warrior bore his weight solidly. "You would surely be a ghost among the snow, should you garb yourself purely in white."

He surely could; when he lay utterly still in the snow, he would be entirely masked from view.

The viera stayed still for a moment, lingering in Haurchefant's embrace, or whatever else it could be called with the man all but draped across his back like a cloak. It soon became suffocating. He pulled away, and he walked towards the heated pools of water, submerging himself up to his chin.

His ears twitched at the sound of Haurchefant humming, a quiet and tuneless melody full of cheer. The Warrior closed his eyes, and found peace in that moment.


	11. Intimacy and Lack Thereof [Aymeric]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of Ch.7 (Romantic Aspirations).

When dawn came and the waking bells tolled, Aymeric was surprised to find the Warrior of Light yet lay next to him, his crystalline eyes still closed to the day.

Upon a closer glance, he realised that the Warrior's breathing was not deep; he was not asleep. Yet he had remained by Aymeric's side for all that he had carefully arranged himself such that they did not touch, his countenance yet marred by his usual frown.

The faint morning light lit his profile with a radiant nimbus of light, outlining the high bridge of his nose and the jut of his chin.

The weight of Aymeric's gaze seemed to be palpable as the viera soon opened his eyes. In the shade of the room, they were dark emerald, glimmering jewels that reflected light bright and scintillating.

"I was under the false impression that you were a man to steal away in the night," he remarked lightly. "You've made it abundantly clear that you are not fond of affection."

The Warrior remained silent, but he shifted closer. One of his powerful legs slipped between Aymeric's own, hooking around his ankle to coax him near.

The act aroused a swell of warmth within him.

"... Mayhaps that was the wrong word to use. It could be that you are merely unused to it," Aymeric corrected, even as the Warrior pressed his face to his throat, the crown of his head now tucked neatly under his chin. Those silken ears were caught against his cheeks, framing his countenance with white.

He lay his arms around the viera, feeling how his chest rose and fell with a silent sigh.

"Stop talking." The words were groused out against his neck, sour in its gravelly undertone yet sweet in the softness of his countenance. The whisper of his lips against his skin as he shaped words was exquisite. "I prefer you asleep, de Borel."

"Of course." Aymeric closed his eyes. He smiled when warm hands tentatively came to rest upon his chest, fingers deftly twisting into the fabric of his sleepclothes. "Whatever pleases you, mine Warrior."

Despite the events scheduled for the day, Aymeric cared naught for his duties, allowing himself to be lulled once more to sleep by the sopor of the viera's breaths.

He would later awake to an empty bed, the sheets long since absent of any of the Warrior's warmth and Lucia's disapproval emanating from the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The viera finds touch overwhelming, and almost painful with how much it stimulates him.


	12. Craftsmanship [The Warrior]

The Warrior knelt down when Tataru called his name, his brows furrowed in silent askance for her request. She bore a grin upon her countenance, cheer evident in the youthful lines of her face.

"I made you something!" She exclaimed, her soft voice imbued with excitement. "Here, try this on!" He had seen her craftsmanship prior to this moment; Alphinaud's coat had certainly been impressive. It was for this reason that he nodded, reaching out to take the package from her hands.

Prising the twine from the paper that held Tataru's craftsmanship, he found himself holding a sharp tailored suit in the Ishgardian style, primarily a muted dove-grey lined with emerald green accents.

"I thought that you could use something more casual to wear in your downtime," Tataru stated shyly, twisting her hands in what was evidently nervousness. "We spend so much time here in Ishgard, that I thought that it would be appropriate for you."

The viera gazed down at the suit, and he felt the soft wool from which it was made. He could see the tiny stitches that darned the fabric and the attention that Tataru had paid to detail. Despite the volumes of fabric that comprised the outfit, she had seen fit to cut holes into the overcoat much akin to his usual garb, at his shoulders and his waist, indubitably hearkening back to his preferred wear.

He nodded again, the faintest of smiles gracing his lips.

She seemed stunned.

"Thank you," he stated. Tataru's countenance flushed entirely red, either in pleasure or embarrassment. Her mouth hung open as she continued to stare at him, making numerous attempts to speak yet failing each time.

She looked ridiculous.

A sharp bark of laughter escaped him at the sight of perfect disbelief upon her features, and she darkened even more, her cheeks now swelling.

She cried out his name in exaggerated offense, a moue affixed upon her lips. "Don't laugh at me! I think this is the first time I've ever seen you smile, Warrior!" She exclaimed. Her lips readily gave way to a radiant smile. "Did you really like it that much?"

It became thrice that he nodded, and found himself surprised when she jumped up to grasp him around his neck, embracing him with a joy that seemed far too great for so tiny a body.

The Warrior folded his arms around her shoulders for a brief moment before he pulled away. Folding her craft over his arm, he rose again to his feet. He ignored how she wiped at her eyes as he turned, walking off to his quarters.

He had armour to shed and clothing to try on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tataru best girl.


	13. Flight and Fancy and Debts [Haurchefant]

Their flight back from the Sea of Clouds was full of laughter--mostly on Haurchefant's part. He remained willfully ignorant of the pallour of his companions' faces, of the fear that yet clung to their bones, and revelled in delight at their survival.

They were alive, and their enemies had been thwarted!

Songs could surely be written of their daring escape from the clutches of the Vanu Vanu and their flying whale of a god; of Cid nan Garland's impeccable timing; of the Warrior of Light's fierce defence of Emmanellain's life! His brother, snatched from the jaws of death, by the greatest hero of Eorzea--nay, all of Hydaelyn!

He turned to beam delightedly at the stoic Warrior, who yet stood at the bow of the _Enterprise_ to greet the world with a stern countenance. The viera spared him not a single moment of his attention, but Haurchefant cared not one whit. He stepped forth, joining him at the bow.

For all of their experiences and time together, it had yet shed Haurchefant's delight and ardour in the Warrior of Light. His father oft cautioned him on his heart, that he not set it so ardently upon his fellows lest it be broken--but the Warrior had yet to fail him in any manner. He was fantastic--simply _fantastic_.

The Warrior shone brighter and brighter with radiant light with each subsequent deed of his. Where mortal man would falter, the Warrior only added to his legend with an ease that belied his struggle. He was indeed hope incarnate, a dazzling figure of beauty and divine providence.

"I must thank you dearly, my most magnificent friend," Haurchefant's whisper would not have been heard over the wind had it not been for the viera's sensitive ears. "My brother--for all of his flaws, is safe solely for the fact that you were there to save him. I could not repay you in any way that could compensate for your actions."

The slightest incline of the viera’s chin was the only indication that his quiet gratitude had been heard.

It was only upon their landing, in the privacy of Fortemps Manor, that the Warrior would speak with him.

“You have done too much.” The Warrior said brusquely, his corded arms crossed across his chest. His head was tipped away, such that his verdant eyes would not meet Haurchefant’s. “For me. For mine clan.”

It was then that Haurchefant frowned. He would later find mirth in how their roles had reversed; it was Haurchefant who now had a furrow between his brows, not the Warrior.

“How so?” Haurchefant asked, bemused despite himself. “I can hardly think of what I have done--your help far outstrips what little I could do for you.”

The Warrior was silent for a long while, his eyes closing in thought. His mien was turned away, but in the silence, was brought to face Haurchefant, granting him full view of the chiselled countenance of the man who had saved Eorzea countless times for naught but duty. He was beautiful, simply gorgeous.

The Warrior shook his head, and remained silent on the matter that Haurchefant had raised. Instead, he offered an enigmatic, “The debts I owe you cannot be repaid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haurchefant does so much for you. I wish Square would have allowed us to do something, anything, for him in return.


	14. Conceptions on Viera [Alphinaud]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Alphinaud is an observer of Aymeric's attempts at courtship, a la Ch.7 (Romantic Aspirations) and 11 (Intimacy and Lack Thereof).

For those who had seen or known of viera, they would think of the tall willowy women, with their beautiful and proud miens and queer ears atop their crown. For those more base-minded, their garb, too, was an arresting feature of theirs; skin tantalisingly displayed and heels much higher than any noblewoman would dare. They were slight, for all that their arms hid a strength that could best any hyur or hrothgar in combat.

It would be logical for one to assume that their men would be similar; that their men would in fact be _smaller_ \--for they were lesser in number, and led not a single community within their matriarchal society. They were hidden away within Orthard’s jungles, secreted away such that their strength was surely augmented by their stealth. It was logical to assume that they would be lithe and brittle compared to their womenfolk.

Those who heard of the Warrior of Light being that of a male viera would often disparage him, belittle him and his so-called deeds as fiction. They would consider him emasculated, a slight man with naught the strength of the women of his kind, whose strength entirely came from the Mother Crystal who was the source of his Light.

Alphinaud found much amusement in the surprise of his enemies and allies alike upon their first encounter with the man.

Such misconceptions would die a swift death upon meeting the Warrior of Light.

Standing as tall as a roegadyn in height, muscled from head to toe--the Warrior was an imposing sight regardless of whether his bow had been drawn against oneself. His head was crowned with a frost-tipped wreath, his arms and legs corded with hard-won muscle, and what skin he had left on display was deceptively smooth--belying the skill that he had to remain so unmarked by scars. His features were regal in appearance, for he had the stern countenance of a cut-marble statue, imposing in its idealised perfection. He cut a striking figure against the horizon as he stood firm against the onslaught of primals and Garleans, enemies of his chosen land of Eorzea--and the shadow he cast upon those he saved lit a hope that would not easily die.

He was a pillar of strength; it was undeniable. Even as they encountered hardships, one after the other--he remained unshaken, taking upon Alphinaud and Ishgard upon his broad shoulders with ease.

With such in mind, it was simple to understand how even lords and leaders would lapse into such deep infatuation with the Warrior. Alphinaud had seen primal gods crumble before the Warrior; mortal men, for all their authority, could never hope to withstand his might.

Alphinaud was an ever-curious man. He wondered--would such infatuation last in the face of the Warrior’s silence? Of his taciturn nature? Of the way he would shy from touch and prevent others from touching him? He seemed not the type for gentle wooing and conventional romance, for he was not the type to even tolerate companionship.

Again, this seemed contrary to the common understanding of viera, who were-- _idealised_ , mayhaps was the term, much akin to the miqo’te.

For all their toils together, the Warrior tolerated no more than a moment’s contact between them, refusing to entertain even the resting of his hand upon his shoulder for longer than a few breaths. The prolonged touch between them in the aftermath of Ul’dah was the only time that Alphinaud could recall where the Warrior had willfully touched him, and not shunned his proximity. The man was seemingly built for solitude.

Nay... perhaps it wasn't _solitude_ per se.

The Warrior would linger in rooms where Alphinaud would stay for all that they would not speak; he would stand as silent guard as Alphinaud flipped through his tomes and scoured through his papers in search for knowledge. Mayhaps he found fulfillment in the silence shared by companions.

Indeed, the Warrior seemed to prefer relationships in a manner that Alphinaud had never quite encountered in the past. Companionship without the proximity, and relationships without a verbal foundation to build upon.

He watched on, a curious guardian, as the Warrior gravitated towards the Lord Commander of the Temple Knights, as they engaged in a courtship that would not be recognised on any level whatsoever--where no intimacy appeared to be exchanged, and instead was one-sided on the lord’s part.

Gifts came regularly from the Lord Commander, but no trinket would return. Letters arrived by courier, and private dinners were had between the two.

The Warrior seemed an inert entity in the face of Lord Aymeric's amour, seemingly caring not one whit for his attempts at wooing--but Alphinaud's sharp eyes could see how the Warrior tolerated far more from the Lord Commander than he would from others. The touch of his hand upon his own, the physical proximity between the two that not even Alphinaud could share...

He would continue to stand as a silent and curious guardian, watching over the Warrior of Light as his heart was slowly thawed by Aymeric de Borel, keeping guard over the man that had saved Eorzea time and time again.


	15. Falling Snows [Aymeric]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not particularly accurate to canon, but let me dream of Aymeric greeting you at Camp Dragonhead after the events of Patch 2.55 :/

Camp Dragonhead hosted the Warrior of Light once more, but it was no joyous occasion.

Aymeric had left the realms of work that he had back in Ishgard and had come to the intercessory--in hopes to provide some form of comfort to the remnants of the Scions.

Walking in, he was greeted with only the sound of wood crackling at the fireplace as it burned.

Aymeric met eyes with Haurchefant from across the room. In the space that spanned between the two elezen lords sat the reticent Warrior himself, still as he ever was as he stared out of the window into the darkness of Coerthan nights. Clasped in his hands was a still-steaming mug of drink, though the Warrior raised it not once to his lips.

Haurchefant stood by the Warrior’s side, his hands resting upon the back of his chair above the Warrior’s shoulders--clearly wishing to offer some manner of comfort yet unsure of how to give it.

His companions, the young Leveilleur and Tataru Taru, had already retired for the night. The Warrior, however, appeared unwilling to rest after the day’s events.

“--My friend,” Aymeric began, his voice obscenely loud in the silence of the room. “It warms mine heart to see you here. When I heard what had occurred after I had left the palais, I could do aught but worry for your safety.”

The viera’s eyes finally shifted from the window to gaze upon Aymeric.

“The dragons,” the Warrior finally spoke, his voice husky and rough with the day’s exertions. “Should you be here?” It sounded much like a rebuke, questioning Aymeric’s decision to leave Ishgard behind even as it recovered from its latest assault from Nidhogg’s masses.

Aymeric shook his head, not to deny his question. “--The situation has been handled. You needn’t worry for the safety of Ishgard.”

“Yes,” Haurchefant was swift to add. “Worry not over the matters of Ishgard just yet, my friend. You will doubtlessly find yourself in the midst of things once we secure your passage into the city proper. For now, we are here to concern ourselves with yourself--and your companions, of course!” The lord knight’s countenance was turned to the Warrior and lit with a smile, full of cheer and encouragement.

Evidently, Haurchefant’s adulation of the Warrior had lessened not a whit even in the wake of accusations of murder and being ousted from Mor Dhona.

Aymeric then realised why the viera had so quickly questioned his flight from Ishgard. The Warrior himself had just lost his home and his companions--smarting from such great loss, it was of no wonder that he would so quickly demand that Aymeric protect his lands where he himself could not. Such trauma would not ease so soon, nor so easily.

He moved forth and deeper into the intercessory, coming to a halt only when he was by the viera’s side. Kneeling down, he placed his hand upon the Warrior’s forearm, startling the Warrior by the uncharacteristic and unexpected touch.

The Warrior had clenched his hands into fists around the mug, and the metal strained against such a powerful grip.

“--You’ve yet to wash the day’s dirt from yourself,” Aymeric murmured quietly, his fingers brushing over a still-wet streak of blood that coated the leathers on the Warrior’s arm, “and the next day will arrive in but a few bells’ time. I would have Lord Haurchefant show you to the wash closet, then to a bed where you may rest. T’was a day full of hardship that none other would have survived with such grace--you needn’t punish yourself like this.” He paused. “Have you met with a physicker yet?”

“He has not,” Haurchefant remarked, his smile ever-radiant even as the viera looked up at him in accusation. He had a hand held out for the Warrior. “Come, my friend. Allow Lord Aymeric and I to accompany you. The sooner you entertain him, the sooner he shall stop haranguing you.”

The Warrior remained silent, pulling his arm away from Aymeric. He allowed his hand to fall from the Warrior and watch as the Warrior stood, ignoring the hand that Haurchefant continued to hold out in invitation. The mug of drink--cocoa, it turned out--was placed roughly into Haurchefant’s grip.

The lack of movement thereafter was a silent invitation for the man to lead the way.

“Excellent!” Haurchefant gestured with his one free hand. “Follow after me--doubtlessly, you’d prefer your privacy today. I shall allow you access to my quarters, for no one will disturb you there, my friend.”

Aymeric shadowed their footsteps as they walked towards the lord’s quarters, listening as Haurchefant filled the air with idle chatter--and watching as the tension in the Warrior’s shoulders slowly relaxed.

There was something to be said about Haurchefant’s guileless chatter, that it could drain the Warrior of what fight remained in him. Would that Aymeric could do the same. His tongue, however, was not trained for comfort and instead for politicking--to inspire men and to manipulate.

Once the Warrior was ensconced within the lord’s wash closet with a fresh set of clothing into which he could change and the sound of water hitting tiles could be heard, Aymeric turned to view Haurchefant.

The lord stared at the door separating them from the Warrior with undisguised worry upon his countenance.

“Tis not natural for the Warrior to be so… defeated,” Haurchefant murmured, his voice barely louder than a hushed whisper. “The day’s events must have affected him more than I could ever comprehend.”

“He has lost his home and most of his people,” Aymeric replied. He reached out, placing a hand upon Haurchefant’s shoulder. “We must remind him that he has not lost it all. And that he stands to gain a new home--Ishgard, should he allow us to accept him.”

There was a brief moment of silence, punctuated only by the sound of splashing water. Haurchefant then laughed, shaking his head at some undisclosed thought.

“You should have seen his face, Lord Commander,” he said. “When I asked him to consider this place as his new home. Falling Snows, I called it. Ne’er have I seen such naked confusion on his face.”

It was hard to imagine the viera with naught but stolidity upon his countenance--it must have been a sight to behold indeed.

“Mayhaps it was because he already considered it home,” Aymeric suggested quietly, watching as Haurchefant startled. “He has a good friend in you.”

A smile had returned to Haurchefant’s face, gentle in a way that Aymeric hadn’t seen before. “--And in you too, my lord commander.”

The forgotten mug of cocoa was raised to his lips, cutting their conversation short. They both fell silent, awaiting the Warrior.


	16. Swordplay [Haurchefant]

It was rather outrageous that the Warrior of Light had never picked up the sword in his lifetime! The calluses on his fingertips bespoke endless hours of practice with the bow, but the palm of his right hand remained soft in a manner that revealed his inexperience with classic steel.

Haurchefant was quick to remedy it, goading the Warrior onto the field with clever words and cleverer hands, pushing a training sword into his palms.

At the edges of the field, curious knights began to converge--but Haurchefant spared them no thought beyond a passing notice. He was wholly focused upon the Warrior before him, who stared down at the pommel of the sword with what could easily be construed as _consternation_.

“--Take a swing of thine sword, Warrior!” Haurchefant exclaimed, a grin on his countenance. “Be not afraid--I’ll have you a knight yet by this very morrow!”

There was no denying the martial prowess of the viera with the notches on his belt so named _Ifrit_ , _Titan,_ _Leviathan_ and _Garuda_ , but Haurchefant was determined to share one more thing with the Warrior. Mayhaps it was a selfish wish to desire crossing blades with the Warrior; it would be even more so to wish to find them equal in strength.

Crystalline green eyes were narrowed on himself. That stern countenance bore furrowed brows, hinting at a reluctance born from public scrutiny. Haurchefant’s grin softened, and he inclined his head in a semblance of a nod--he would not push the Warrior should he drop the sword and stormed from the field and the gaze of twenty knights.

And so, the Warrior dropped his hand in an unpracticed manner, and the sword sliced through the air. The blade wavered, the flat of the steel catching against the wind rather than the edge. Nevertheless, it was a valiant attempt--scores greater than new recruits, most of whom had not the strength to wield so large a blade one-handedly.

Haurchefant bustled forth, taking hold of the Warrior’s arm with a cautious touch, ignoring how the viera’s body tensed at their sudden proximity.

“You now know the weight of this blade--and you can surely feel how the blade leads from the tip, rather than from the hilt! To effectively wield a blade such as this, you should...” Haurchefant began to explain, patiently detailing the mechanics of the broadsword.

The Warrior ran through the forms that Haurchefant guided him through, his shoulders set in a tense line as he learnt to wield the sword, swung it forwards and called forth wind with the strength of his thrusts.

Oh, how the Warrior was truly Halone-blessed. It was most fascinating to experience and watch as the viera mastered the sword at such astonishing speeds. No normal man could improve his form so swiftly, and upon the first day of his learning.

Haurchefant’s countenance was alight with a glow as the sun made its descent from the sky, calling forth the moon and stars--and through it all, the viera moved not away, nor closer, his prowess with the sword blooming under their dual attention.

Even as once-curious knights peeled away, the Warrior continued to stand in the field with Haurchefant. When it became too dark to see well without the aid of light, it was only then that the elezen called for them to stop.

The Warrior of Light looked down at the blade that he had so diligently studied, the steel managing to catch what little light that the stars could emanate from so many malms away.

“You are magnificent,” Haurchefant murmured quietly. Stepping up close, he could see how the faint fall of snow had managed to blend in with the white of his hair; little beads of snow clung to his lashes and cheeks. He reached up, gloved fingers gently brushing the ice away. “Just simply _magnificent._ You must know this--that there could be no one nearly as fantastic as you.”

The Warrior’s lashes fluttered in what could only be _surprise_. Was he truly so shocked by Haurchefant’s praise? Had he not heard such adulation before? He had inclined his head, tucking his chin into his neck, eyes averted from Haurchefant’s. Those leporine ears had drooped forth, covering the top half of his countenance.

“Would you humour me a little longer, Warrior?” Haurchefant asked. “I would like to ask a favour of you.”

At those words the statuesque man stilled, raising his chin once more. That Haurchefant did not indicate what this favour would entail was doubtlessly something of which the Warrior was wary. Nevertheless, the viera gave the slightest of nods.

“Please, continue to study the blade and master it. Mayhaps one day, we shall be able to spar--not as mentor and pupil, but as fellow knights! That would be glorious indeed--to be able to lock blades with the Warrior of Light, and to hold mine own against one such as you,” Haurchefant exclaimed fervently. “That would be my favour--for a spar, at an unspecified moment in time when you feel as if you have learnt what you must.”

The Warrior set the sword down onto the ground, the tip of the steel blade piercing the snow-coated ground. There was the faintest of smiles playing upon his lips, and the nod--much more forceful than the one that preceded it--sparked an ecstasy within Haurchefant that he would be hard-pressed to describe in any written word.

Haurchefant’s smile was radiant--lit from within by the Warrior’s own Light. “You have my eternal gratitude, my dearest friend!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those curious as to the Warrior's thoughts at the end: he's blinded by that smile.


	17. Crystal Blue Eyes [Aymeric]

Aymeric watched the hero as he approached the mirror attached to the wall of the Lord Commander’s office, curiosity evident in the glint of his verdant eyes, how his lips had softened from its stern line.

The Warrior reached out to press his fingers to the glass, looking through it at some unknown entity--though from Aymeric’s vantage, it seemed that he was inordinarily affixed with his own countenance. Mayhaps this could be construed as vanity in any other man, but the viera had never shown an inclination to arrogant self-love.

He behaved as if he’d never seen himself before through a looking glass.

“--Do you see something that intrigues you, Warrior?” Aymeric asked when the viera moved not away from the mirror and had moved in closer, his nose almost pressed to the surface of the glass. If his skin did indeed touch the glass, Aymeric would be hard-pressed to explain how such marks appeared to the housekeeper.

The viera seemed to snap out of whatever trance the looking glass had spelled him under, and looked at the lord commander through the glass. Aymeric smiled.

“Have you never seen yourself through the glass?” He asked.

The Warrior shook his head, the ears atop his head swaying with the motion. “--No, I have not.” The sudden speech surprised Aymeric enough that he startled. “I’ve only seen glimpses of myself… reflections off windows, off glass cups. In rivers.”

And with the lack of memories of his past, as he’d admitted that one night moons ago in the cold fjord… It was no wonder that he would have no recollection of what he looked like.

The viera was silent as Aymeric stood to join him by the looking glass.

“What do you think?” Aymeric asked. “What thoughts lay within your mind at this moment?”

“... Mine eyes. And yours.”

The Warrior was strangely talkative that day--and Aymeric had become Lord Commander by recognising what opportunities of which he had to take advantage. “What about our eyes, my friend?” Aymeric was no stranger to comments concerning his appearance, whether derogatory or complimentary, but he had this feeling that the Warrior would not make such words.

The Warrior turned away from the looking glass, facing Aymeric. “They are coloured as the crystal is.”

The crystal?

\--Hydaelyn Herself?

Aymeric could stop not the flush that rose upon his cheeks, strangely stricken by that wondrous remark. To be compared with the Mother Crystal by her chosen champion himself.

“I… thank you.”

“Don’t.” The viera’s countenance had soured. “I’d rather not be reminded of the tactless wench.”

Aymeric could stop not the splutter that left him at the Warrior of Light’s blunt words. Nor could he stop the chuckles that followed when the Warrior’s expression turned mirthful at his loss of composure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does the WoL not give a single care for the Mother Crystal? ... Not one whit.


	18. Sweet Dust [Haurchefant]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A reference is made back to Ch.3 (Cocoa).

The Warrior had revealed to him in that moment a fondness for sweets.

The surprise that had erupted from his countenance upon that first taste of hot cocoa--well, it was something that pleaded return. Or mayhaps, Haurchefant was depraved enough to wish to see it once more as a direct consequence of his own actions.

The Warrior was seated by the desk in the room that his father had so graciously lent, looking out of the window to the blizzard that raged and roared outside. He looked the very portrait of melancholy, of an untouchable being that would evanesce the moment Haurchefant came too close.

He dared not even breathe, transfixed by the image that the Warrior posed.

Strong, masculine lines framed by the soft cloth that currently adorned him--he was… impossible to the senses. Divine-sent, Halone-made. It was ever a blessing that the Warrior of Light had been shaped so carefully and lovingly, and it was ever a miracle that he now lived in the very house that House Fortemps did.

Haurchefant took a hesitant step forward. Try as he might, even the imperceptible sound of his foot against the carpet was enough to alert the Warrior.

The viera turned his head, affixing Haurchefant in place under the weight of his gaze.

Those crystalline eyes glanced southwards, to the tray that was held within his hands, before returning to Haurchefant’s countenance.

There was a silent question in that gaze.

“Am I disturbing you, my friend?” Haurchefant asked.

The Warrior shook his head. He rose to his feet to his full seven fulms, and Haurchefant distantly thought that it was a wonder that his ears did not scrape the ceiling with his imposing height.

“This, Warrior, is a little gift I have for you. You see, back at Camp Dragonhead, we had a paltry selection to choose from to impress you,” Haurchefant explained with a smile, walking forth to set the tray down upon the table that the Warrior had just vacated. The dish upon the tray was yet covered by a decorative cloche. “Here, in House Fortemps’ ancestral manor, we have a far greater selection of dishes to choose from--but I didn’t come here to have you listen to me speak. Open it up! I wish to see what your favourites shall be!”

He was eyed warily by the Warrior, but upon a simple gesture on Haurchefant’s part, he was bade to remove the cloche from the tray--and there it was.

An innocent form of wonder crossed the Warrior’s countenance at the sight of such delicately designed pastries and confections, artfully crafted by the finest patissieres of Ishgard. Chocolates, white, blond, milk and dark; tarts of all designs; cakes honeyed and sweet. Haurchefant would swear that he saw the Warrior’s ears perk up even higher in interest.

“As you no doubt can see, these are a few varieties of pastries--most of which are my favourites, I must admit, but I would hardly serve you something that I personally disliked,” Haurchefant explained, pointing at each individual morsel and naming it, explaining what it was and the flavours with which they were perfumed. “Do try them out--and should you not like any, worry not! I shall eat it myself,” he reassured with a smile.

The viera bent his head over the tray, and with careful fingers, pulled free a dark chocolate truffle from its nest. Haurchefant watched as the Warrior raised it--and took a sniff before Haurchefant could warn him.

The Warrior promptly sneezed, the cocoa powder of the truffle having drifted into his nose by that one act.

In addition, the force of the act had caused the truffle to paint the tip of his nose a dusty brown--and near tipped the entire tray over.

The sight was utterly amusing. Try as he might, he could not stifle the laughter that came bubbling up--not even the malevolent glare pointed his way by the Warrior of Light could silence his mirth. Not with the cocoa dust still on his face, and the formerly artful display of desserts now in disarray.

“Oh, my dear friend--come here…” Haurchefant could no more suppress the smile on his face than he could stop breathing. “I have never seen you so discomposed…”

Though the furious look hardly faded from his countenance, the Warrior obliged, coming close enough that Haurchefant could wipe the dust from his nose.

When his fingers left the viera’s face, the truffle promptly disappeared within the man’s mouth, the Warrior chewing upon the morsel with an expression that would better suit a battlefield.

And then the flavour registered.

The thunderous furrow of his brow instantly conceded to surprise then a muted delight--everything Haurchefant could have expected and hoped for.

It was needless to say that the Warrior spared not a single crumb for the knight that had brought him such pastries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The viera's hearing is exceedingly sharp, as are his eyes. His nose, however, is not nearly as sensitive to scent. What it is, is extremely sensitive to powders it seems.


	19. Chocobo [Aymeric]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realise I have this bad habit of actually making Aymeric or Haurchefant as the main character / subject of character development, rather than the WoL. Oh well.

Aymeric found the Warrior of Light ensconced in the chocobo stables, peering at the mount that Haurchefant had gifted him just bells earlier with a queer expression upon his mien.

“Have you ridden chocobos before, my friend?” He asked, when the viera showed no sign of having heard his approach. From the lack of start, it became evident that he had merely been ignored by the Warrior.

The thought was… not particularly the most appetising to consume.

The Warrior glanced over at Aymeric, pinning him in place with his crystalline stare.

How strange it was, that a single glance from this man could arrest him in place. Aymeric had come into his position, not as a result of folly and chance, but through the steel in his spine and the ambition in his marrow--and yet a single look from the Warrior of Light had him hesitant to move forth.

Aymeric was not a shameless man, but if even primals fell to this man, he found no shame in admitting defeat to the Warrior of Light.

The Warrior seemed to judge him in that moment--and there was a distant fear that he would be found wanting.

Irreverent to the happenings of man, the chocobo trilled impatiently. Its beak sought the Warrior’s hands in search of what was no doubt food.

Letting out a soft huff, the viera turned back to the chocobo, placing his hand upon the chocobo’s head. There was a moment’s silence, before the Warrior spoke.

“They smell.”

Aymeric found himself smiling at the statement, the tone of which had been surprisingly petulant for the reticent man.

“That was not affirmation nor denial,” he remarked, taking the opportunity to come closer. The chocobo’s eyes had closed shut in pleasure as the Warrior ran deft fingers along the bird’s crest, scratching some itch that the chocobo was unable to.

“I see no need to ride that which is prey.” The viera finally remarked.

Aymeric glanced at the Warrior in surprise.

The Warrior seemed aware of his surprise. The next words of his came sharp and imbued with irritation. “I am no grass-eating hare, de Borel.”

The swiftness of his rebuke seemed practiced. Mayhaps, prior to his fame as the Warrior of Light, the viera had fielded much discussion concerning the common depiction of rabbits as timid, skittish creatures. The scowl upon his countenance certainly suggested it.

“--I did not mean to imply as such. Mine apologies, Warrior,” Aymeric murmured quietly.

Silence blanketed them, much like snow upon the Coerthas highlands. The chocobo seemed now uninterested in the Warrior’s touch and had trotted to Aymeric, its bright black eyes belying none of its intelligence. It was alert, its beak strong and its wings wide--Haurchefant, truly, had bred a magnificent steed for the Warrior.

The Warrior remained quiet as Aymeric placed a hand upon the chocobo’s back, feeling its muscular body stretch and flex beneath his touch.

“... I have received word that you were called to the Vault.”

The viera nodded.

“--I will not ask you what the archbishop has spoken of with you, but I would ask… how is he?” Aymeric asked, the words brittle. “The archbishop.”

The Warrior watched him with a steady gaze. Was he able to discern exactly why Aymeric would ask him such a thing? It was unnerving to be subject to such a stare that threatened to dissect him and pry apart his very being.

It would not be so terrifying a prospect had the Warrior of Light been less reticent a man, and Aymeric could know what he felt about the thoughts that ran through Aymeric’s mind.

The Warrior then shook his head, breaking the stare. “Decrepit.” He stated. "And ugly."


	20. By Her Will [Tataru]

Tataru's hand was small, especially in contrast with the Warrior’s own. She had laid it atop of the Warrior’s, the smile on her countenance gentle and understanding.

“Warrior… if anyone deserves rest, it is you. You’ve hardly been able to catch a break. Everyone will understand if you wished to take a few days doing nothing—for you’ve certainly saved all of Eorzea enough times to warrant it!” She paused, then added, "The realm can take care of itself for a few bells, at the very least. If you don't take a break, I shall be forced to take drastic measures!"

The threat was hardly one that the Warrior could take seriously, for she had naught the strength that he did nor the authority, but she could see the mirth hiding in the corner of his eyes. There was concession in his gaze, and she beamed at him.

"I'll be sure to direct everyone looking for you far, far from here. You make sure you take rest, alright?" She asked, though it was far more a demand than a request.

Tataru smiled and gave the Warrior a curtsey when he nodded, inclining his head in his usual birdlike way.

"Then shall I take my leave, and you take yours. Rest well, Warrior!"

Turning on her heel, Tataru strode off to make good on her word. By her will or by the Twelve's was the Warrior of Light going to have a day off!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think Tataru is the one that deserves rest more than the Warrior. She is strong, and she is resourceful, and she is so damn lovely. The viera, should he ever be forced to admit it, admires her the most out of all of those within his clan.


	21. Company [The Warrior]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These are getting longer with each subsequent piece. These aren't drabbles anymore are they???  
> Also, I stan a sensual relationship.

The Warrior stepped into the manor, snow falling from his hair and shoulders as he stooped down to pull his boots off. With a swift motion, he shook his cloak with a roll of his shoulders, sending a cascade of white onto the floor--where, due to the warmth of the fireplace, they would surely melt and leave stains in the carpet.

He cared not for the stains, but the occupants of the manor surely would.

With a careless sweep of his boots, he kicked the snow from the carpet to the threshold, closing the door once the majority of the snow had been removed from the premises.

In that time, the master of the manor had been alerted to his presence.

Despite the lateness of the hour, he could hear the rapid approaching sounds of boots against wood, each step descending farther down the staircase to the foyer. The whisper of cloth, the lack of the clanking of metal--the man had removed his armour, and was surely prepared to bed for the night.

The Warrior ignored the approach of the man, instead prowling towards the sitting room to the side where the fireplace now held simmering coals. It would be simple enough to ignite into flames once more.

“--Warrior. You have returned.”

The sound of Aymeric’s voice was not enough to coax the viera to turn from the fireplace.

Then Aymeric called his name, quietly and hesitantly--the quality of his voice turning the simple call of his name into something far more sultry and beguiling.

The damn elezen.

The viera forcibly relaxed his stiffened shoulders, rising to his feet in a swift motion.

The Lord Commander of Temple Knights was diminished in his sleepwear, soft blue fabric wrapping his body to provide utterly no form of protection against any bite or steel. Aymeric’s lips were set into a gentle smile, not one whit intimidated by the scowl that was surely upon his own.

There was sopor clinging to his countenance and ink upon his fingertips. Aymeric had been working into the depths of the night, it seemed, as he himself had been.

“Might I ask what you have been doing?” Aymeric asked, coming forth and closer to the Warrior. “You left so suddenly without a single word to your companions.” Unspoken was the accusation that he had not said a word to Aymeric about his sudden disappearance.

The Warrior shook his head. He had merely been making his rounds around Ishgard, stalking its streets where the temple knights treaded not. It was an activity that calmed his own mind, set it at ease enough that he could rest--as he so intended by returning to the manor.

“In any case… if you will not disclose to me of your secret activities, mayhaps I could invite you to join me in mine?” Aymeric asked, his head tilted forward. The blue of his eyes were bright, catching the light of dying embers in the fireplace.

The Warrior pursed his lips, but the expression seemed to indicate some form of concession to the lord commander.

The elezen, bastard that he was, smiled at him. His countenance was now alight with a glow that the Warrior would describe as blinding had he the inclination for metaphors and poetry. He had not. He would instead describe the glow as asinine. A fool’s smile, as pretty as a flower and all of the use of one.

He was beguiled by that smile to follow after Aymeric as he led their way up the staircase, leaving the embers behind to smoulder.

“--You must feel encumbered. Pray, remove your cloak and any other trappings that you see fit,” Aymeric invited even as they entered the foyer. “Needless to say, the maids shall see to them that they are cleaned and pressed before you leave in the morrow.”

With such an open invitation, the Warrior was swift to take it. As they took to the steps and climbed them, he carelessly swept the cloak from his shoulders, letting it billow and fall where it willed.

When Aymeric looked back and saw the cloak draped across the steps as a river of green velvet, he let out a laugh.

“One should hope that you know what rumours you will spark, Warrior of Light,” he remarked jovially. “A trail of clothing that leads to one of the guest rooms is an unsubtle indication of certain matters.”

The Warrior watched as Aymeric turned his back to the sight. Had he cared to know, he would have asked the elezen if he minded such rumours--or whether he even desired such rumours to come into fruition. As it was, he did not.

Eventually, they came to a door that was richly embellished with gold filigree.

“--Here, my study,” Aymeric introduced needlessly, for the viera had eyes with which to see. “My secretive project is carried out within these four walls…”

The walls were a muted brown and lined with books, but the impressive bookcases were not the centrepiece of the study. The Warrior could see a table laden with reams and stacks of parchment. It was a wonder that the wood of the desk had yet to bow under such crushing weight.

“Paperwork.”

“You needn’t say that with such disgust, my friend!” Aymeric remarked with a laugh, mirth colouring his cheeks a dusky pink. “Yes, I was indeed working on the various reports--all urgent, you see, and needed by various parties in the morrow. Would you join me as I finish off the last of my work? I must admit, the presence of your company would make the project far more enjoyable for mineself.”

The Warrior disbelieved that. He would not speak, nor interact with the lord commander in any meaningful manner as he sat at his desk and hunched over his endless volumes of parchment.

Aymeric seemed not to care for that eventuality, making his way over to the chair and sitting down with a resigned sigh. “Make yourself comfortable, Warrior of Light. I shall be done with this shortly.”

The viera watched as the elezen pulled a candle close to himself and lit it, using the light of the candle to read his first report. Without any other particularly impressive act to capture his attention, the Warrior made his way to the fireplace and seated himself upon the plush carpet in front of it, closing his eyes.

With the crackling of the fire and the scratch of a nib against parchment, he found himself drifting off into a restful doze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is soothing to walk through the streets of Ishgard, which the viera has reluctantly come to call home. He guards its streets jealously. It is soothing to be able to return to a warm hearth, and to sit in the presence of one of his closest friends, and know that at least Aymeric would be safe that night under his guard.


	22. Dreams [Haurchefant]

Ishgard was cold and had been since the advent of the Calamity. The ice that had settled upon the lands had frozen its people in a manner that had not become evident until that very moment.

He was melting, molten, under the blazing light of his lover.

The Warrior had slipped into his bed, quiet as a ghost, in the depths of the night where there would be none to witness beyond the moon in the skies and her stars.

He climbed into his bed, moved under the sheets--and instead of laying with a stretch of land dividing their bodies, he moved in and pressed himself to Haurchefant, leaving space for not even a breath to pass between them.

The Warrior was warm within his arms, the broad span of his back pressed against his chest. He was warm through the soft cotton of his shirt. His breathing was shallow, and his posture stiff with the alert of consciousness. It was a rarity indeed for the Warrior to consciously allow such blatant contact between their skin, to stay peacefully within Haurchefant’s embrace.

T’was the norm for the Warrior to pull away after a moment’s breath; this deviance from the typical had Haurchefant’s curiosity piqued.

“Is this a dream? Am I yet asleep?” He asked quietly, his arms tightening ever so slightly around the Warrior. “You’ve never been one to remain placid within mine arms that I scarcely believe this to be true.”

The Warrior was silent as expected, but he shifted, turning around to face the elezen.

In the dark of his quarters, the levin-bright of the Warrior’s eyes was muted; Haurchefant could see not the thin line of his lips well, nor the smooth arch of his brow. With such blindness granted by the night, he started when the warm breadth of the Warrior’s hand came to rest upon his arm where the sleeve cut off to reveal his wrists.

“Quiet.” The Warrior’s quiet, husky voice was a siren’s call, arresting Haurchefant and seizing full hold of his faculties. “I’m not awake.”

Haurchefant smiled, and he could see the barest shifts to the Warrior’s expression, dark as it may be. Mayhaps the Warrior was now frowning, his stern countenance as impassive as the statues that guarded the Last Vigil. He could imagine the further change in his countenance as he spoke, “If we’re both slumbering and this were a dream, my hero would full kiss my lips, and we would make passionate love until dawn kisses the sky.”

The Warrior’s countenance would quite possibly burn a glorious red at his shameless words; fantastical imaginings of the man’s expression filled Haurchefant’s mind. He would look… simply gorgeous, his brows furrowed as that stern expression slipped into one of embarrassment.

Indeed, the hand upon his arm had tightened, and the Warrior let out a scoff.

“I would take hold of my hero within my hands and run my fingers over his skin; he would be laid bare beneath me as I would worship at the altar ‘tween his legs,” Haurchefant continued, his words ever quieter as the viera shook before him, his tremors growing more obvious with each word that he spoke. “Tis only right that piety be practiced before what is divinely wrought, and that my hero is given the praise and devotion as is his due.”

“-- _Quiet._ ” The Warrior hissed, his hand now moving to cover Haurchefant’s mouth.

Nails sharp bit into the skin of his cheeks, but there was no pain that could stop the quiet lick of satisfaction that bloomed within him as the viera steadily unraveled according to his words. He parted his lips, tongue slyly trailing along the long rough lengths of his fingers. Those deft and clever fingers flinched back, but Haurchefant followed after them, allowing no quarter as he would when his adversary retreated before him.

Taking hold of his wrist, Haurchefant continued to press devout kisses to his fingers, humming a tuneless hymn dedicated to the Warrior of Light who lay in his bed and allowed him this love.

A tremulous sound left the Warrior when Haurchefant parted his lips, taking his fingertips into his mouth and sipped at them; a holy communion of which bound him evermore to the Warrior.

A single sound was all he was allowed to experience, for Haurchefant then found his head forcibly pulled back by a rough grip on his hair, tight enough to draw a hiss of pain from his own lips.

“A dream, is this not?” Haurchefant asked, when the Warrior had finally wrested his hand from his grip and pulled away. The hand in his hair had loosened, but that broad palm yet caressed his scalp. “Or am I awake?”

In the dark of Haurchefant’s quarters, the Warrior leaned in. He touched his forehead to Haurchefant’s own, a quiet exhale leaving his lips. “Neither,” he whispered, “for this is _my_ dream, and I will dream most avariciously of you.”

The taste of the Warrior’s lips was as sweet as the cocoa he so dearly enjoyed to partake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is in the depths of night that the viera allows himself this indulgence. He cares not for sex, but he cares deeply for this man that has seduced his way into his life and bed. The discomfort of touch is worth his smile.


	23. Return [Alphinaud]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate title for the drabble: protector.

The expression upon the Warrior's countenance was one he had scarce seen, an ugly and fierce sneer painting his features with a formerly unseen ferocity. His arms trembled from the force of his bow, drawn back and notched with an arrow that gleamed a vicious light at its sharp point.

Before this seraph brimming with righteous fury and judgement lay prone a man whose arms and legs had been pinned to the frozen ground by the very same arrows that filled the Warrior's quiver. Crimson blood oozed from the wounds, staining the soil a burnt and iron-laced red.

"What is the meaning of this?" Alphinaud asked, eyes wide, caught between fear and anger at the sudden turn of events. "Warrior?"

It had barely passed a minute between their idle and silent companionship to this violent scene, an unknown man struggling to move even as the Warrior kept him at arrowpoint.

The silhouette the Warrior cast against the dying sun was simply the very picture of merciless might that artists strived to capture in oils and inks.

"--You _Scions!"_ The wretched man shrieked, thrashing against the arrows that restrained him. Grotesque rivulets of blood were ushered by the aggressive movement, and spittle and crimson droplets flew through the air. His eyes were blown wide, his sclera stark white against the crazed blue of his irises. "The gods curse you and bring ruin on your heads! You--and that lop-eared bastard! You killed her, my sister! I'll kill you!"

It was only then that Alphinaud noticed a dagger laying forgotten on the soil, the pieces falling into place even as the Warrior let loose the arrow.

An assassin, now prisoner to the arrows that held him down, who placed the death of his kin upon their shoulders. Determined to find some form of retribution in his death, and mayhaps the Warrior of Light's.

He flinched, closing his eyes as the man's shrieks cut off into a choked gurgle, unable to draw breath through the wood that now pierced his throat.

Then there was silence.

Alphinaud kept his eyes closed, breathing slowly and heavily as he attempted to silence the nausea in his own stomach, to smother the guilt and horror at this summary execution of a man who now could no longer justify his own behaviour.

The man's countenance had been familiar; who had his sister been, that Alphinaud could feel recognition tickling at his mind? A heretic? Or a Crystal Brave?

There was a subtle warmth at his left shoulder, denoting to the Warrior's proximity. A hand came to rest upon the top of his head.

"Return," the hero murmured softly, his low voice breaking past the drone of Alphinaud's horror. When Alphinaud failed to move, the hand pressed insistently down upon his crown. "You are safe with me. Move, boy."

And so, Alphinaud turned his back to the corpse of the unknown man, spurred forth by the large shape of the Warrior, horror yet filling his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The viera is a possessive man, and would fiercely defend what he considers belonging to his lands and his clan. No one, neither saint nor sinner, deserves to live should they threaten what is his to keep.


	24. Green Fields [Aymeric]

Gridania was verdant, almost overwhelmingly so. It was sight that inspired nostalgia, if one could be nostalgic of something of something so recently lost; Ishgard and the lands surrounding her had once been so green, lush with life and bursting with birdsong in spite of the blood that had bathed her lands for millennia. And then the Calamity hit, and in the wake of the Seventh Umbral Era came the snow.

Aymeric strolled through the winding paths of the citystate, silent in his contemplation of the lands. Behind him, the Warrior kept pace silently, a reassuring presence at his shoulder.

All around him teemed plantlife, vivacious and unrepentantly stretching up to reach for the sun above. The air was warm, with none of the harsh bite of the Coerthan wind. Each breath was saturated with an intoxicating freshness, a perfume that he hadn’t realised he’d forgotten with the eternal winter of his homelands.

And when he stopped to breathe in, he found that he could hear in the distance the sound of rushing water—sounds foreign to him now in nature. So bidden by the sound, he moved towards it with the curiosity of a newborn foal.

Before long, a stream flowed before him, the water crystal clear and running over stones with scintillating glimmer, as arresting to the eye as a well-cut diamond. He stepped out onto the riverstone living the stream, stooping down to place his hands into the water.

It was not cold. It should not have come as a surprise, but there must have been something to betray his emotions for the Warrior let out a snort.

“It is not icemelt,” Aymeric remarked, explaining to himself why it could not be as cold as the few streams that trickled in Coerthas. “Is this palatable?”

Looking up at the Warrior, he saw that the viera nodded curtly.

Aymeric curled his fingers under the water, before splaying his hand as wide as it could go. It was idle wonder that had him linger here, with water warm from the sun that ran clear without the poison of old blood. Small fish could be spied hiding from the gentle current, and he swayed his fingers at them in hopes of enticing them forth.

Fish, however, were wily. They darted away from his hands.

“Gridania is… far different than I had expected,” Aymeric said, standing up. He shook his hands free of moisture, and he turned to the Warrior. “When Ishgard had joined forces once more with the rest of Eorzea, I hadn’t thought it would result in this: visiting lands that I had only ever known of by reading. And now, I lead my people in tandem with three other nations…”

The Warrior inclined his head, amusement evident in the soft tilt of his lips and the slight narrowing of his eyes. He was relaxed in a way that Aymeric had never seen before, and it was lovely in the way that all beautiful things were. Precious, invaluable, and transient.

The Warrior turned away from him, and Aymeric realised that he had been smiling all this time.

The lush green of this land was reflected in the verdant crystals that were the Warrior’s eyes; it was fitting that this man would so love this citystate. He embodied the lush vivacity of the Shroud, majestic and great in might.

“Show me, Warrior, where you tend to secret yourself away. I believe that I would prefer a quiet place to enjoy Gridania’s lauded beauty,” he requested.

The viera turned on his heel, and Aymeric followed after him past wooden structures and people alike, watching with wonder as the city gave way to forest near seamlessly.

Only when they had walked down secret paths in these secretive woods did he reach out to take the Warrior’s hand in his own. As they approached a field seemingly endless of flowers, the Warrior’s palm was warm against his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aymeric, for all his lofty position as Lord Commander, is not a well-travelled man. Nor is he a worldly man. He has travelled only to Ul'dah, and he had, until this point, only seen the forests of Gridania from afar--needless to say, he could only imagine what La Noscea would be like, and he dreams of what the sea's breeze would be like against his face.


	25. Safety [The Warrior]

“I had the most queer dream that I had died,” Haurchefant remarked lightly. He sounded as if he had a whimsical smile upon his face, but that mattered not to the Warrior who faced away from the lord.

The viera did not raise his head from his pillow, feigning sleep even as Haurchefant gently touched his shoulder. Those fingertips slid down his arm, sending fire licking against his skin.

“It was a good death, one that I could be proud of,” the elezen continued, quiet in a way that most would consider uncharacteristic. “Taking a lance that had been aimed at you, such that you could continue to live to defeat the enemy… As I died, I saw you stride off into the sky, bird’s wings granting you flight as you pursued the escaping dastards through the aether. It was a beautiful dream. I could ask no more of how I would end. Halone willing, I would be able to die like that: in protection of one I consider dearest to mineself.”

The Warrior kept his eyes closed, and reacted not as that spider-light touch changed to the pressure of his palm resting upon the crook of his elbow, fingers wrapping around his arm.

The elezen continued to speak, whimsy in his voice and delicacy in his touch.

“It was a beautiful dream, but there was one thing that I cannot stop thinking upon. In that dream, I saw you cry. It was a strange, stirring sight. Your face was not meant for tears, and... I should think you would not weep over me.” Haurchefant laughed here, soft and depreciative in tone. “Forgive me my dreams; tears would not become of you, my dearest friend, for indeed a smile better suits a hero. And you are the mightiest hero of them all.”

The hand was removed from the Warrior’s arm, and he could hear the lord as he rose to his feet, striding out of the room. The door opened and shut; Haurchefant was gone.

It was then that he opened his eyes, staring into the stone wall that he faced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this when I received the Windup Haurchefant. My heart broke all over again.


	26. Taunt [Haurchefant]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow up of Ch.16 (Swordplay).

The cheerful swaying of the viera’s ears in the breeze belied the serious glint within the Warrior of Light’s eyes. And oh, how they narrowed, a sneer crossing his countenance as Haurchefant made slow circles around the other.

Their swords were drawn, and they prowled around one another, waiting for an opportunity to close in.

Around them, Haurchefant could hear the excited murmurs of his fellow knights; he bore them no mind, keeping his eyes steady upon the viera before him.

In an instant, the Warrior surged forth with a speed that was near-impossible to imagine for a man of his size. Powerfully, his legs brought him to Haurchefant with one great leap, and the sword came down mercilessly.

Throwing himself to the side, he narrowly avoided the blow. He had judged correctly that he would not have been able to resist such strength; even for a man of his strength and dexterity the Warrior stumbled forward, unable to control his momentum so rapidly.

Haurchefant took advantage of that in an instant, jumping forward with a swing of his sword. It caught against the guard of the Warrior’s blade, the viera only just managing to raise his arm to react against his attack. With a thrust of the Warrior’s arm, he was repelled--and so forth went the battle with the trading of thunderous blows and the singing of blades cutting air.

Dirt and snow was kicked around as he rolled out of the way of the Warrior’s wide swings, narrowly missing the sharp edge of his sword. Leaping forward, his own blade slipped past the Warrior’s side, the viera having only managed to turn his body.

“Do not underestimate me!” Haurchefant cried out as the viera leaped backwards, caution now found upon his features. “I am a knight of House Fortemps. That bears much meaning even beyond the walls of Ishgard, my friend!”

The Warrior twisted his wrist, his blade swaying through the air with the unharried motion. For all of his former stolidity, there now lay caution in his gaze. His lips were set in a thin line, the chiselled relief of his cheeks all the more prominent as he clenched his jaw.

Haurchefant beat his sword against the side of his shield, each clatter of steel upon steel spurring more cheers and jeers from the knights watching them. “--Come at me, Warrior of Light! Show me the might that felled five primals!”

So swiftly did the viera rush forth.

Steel clashed with a sonorous clang, Haurchefant grit his teeth as he struggled to push back against the Warrior’s harsh blow. Their blades so locked and their bodies brought close, he could see now how the Warrior’s crystalline eyes were wide, and his expression set alight by battle.

He grinned.

His blood sang, and his heart soared with song--for the Warrior’s eyes had met his, judged him and found him worthy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to not hold back on my thoughts about most of the previous chapters. If you want, you can go back to previous chapters and read on my thoughts.
> 
> For this chapter: Haurchefant, despite his cheer and his delight, is first and foremost a paladin of much skill, and he very much deserves his knighthood. The viera finds this out firsthand, and gains much respect for his friend's skill. Though he may pierce a man's eye from a hundred paces away even with a storm raging around him, he would be hardpressed to slay a dragon that stood a fulm away from him with a sword in his hands.


	27. Teeth [Alphinaud]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References to Ch.3 (Cocoa) and Ch.18 (Sweet Dust) are made.

The Warrior continued to hold his mouth open, for all that his brows were set into a frown and he looked increasingly irritated by the fuss.

Alphinaud hid his smile behind a book, surreptitiously glancing from the page to the Warrior as Tataru hummed and hawed over his teeth.

Around them, the staff of House Fortemps continued about their daily business, but he could see that they too were watching the strange sight of the Warrior of Light, sat upon a stool that was far too small for his size, and Tataru standing before him atop a large stack of hard cushions to inspect his mouth.

Throughout the past sennight, the Warrior's countenance had progressively darkened over some unknown matter, eyes narrowing from pain. It hadn't been until a well-meaning maid had cautiously asked as to his health that the Warrior had acquiesced to an examination--specifically at the small hands of Tataru.

And thus began the rather scandalous undress of the Warrior as Tataru aggressively scanned the Warrior from head to toe, blithely ignoring the horror of the Fortemps retainers as the viera was summarily left in his smallclothes, showing no sign of injury or bruise on any part of his broad form.

Then, Tataru's eyes had brightened, and she had rather fearlessly grabbed the Warrior by his countenance and pried his lips open to inspect his teeth as if he were a horse.

Alphinaud had to hold back his mirth at the thought of it.

If anything, the Warrior could be more akin to a stubborn mule than any thoroughbred horse.

Tataru peered in closer, her face no more than an ilm from the Warrior's surprisingly sharp teeth, and let out yet another hum. This time, it had a quality of completion, of finality.

“--Cavities,” Tataru announced simply, when she finally released the Warrior’s jaw. She had the beginnings of an irrepressible smile on her face. “That was the source of your toothaches, Warrior!”

Alphinaud couldn’t help the snort that escaped him, laughter startled out of him by the diagnosis.

The Warrior’s expression had ne’er looked so dark as it had in that moment, the fierce glower upon his countenance sending the manservants loitering in the room out.

“You’d best cut back on those sweets that Ser Haurchefant has been plying you with,” Tataru continued, oblivious to, or mayhap rather boldly ignoring the growing fury that surrounded their fellow Scion. She smiled at the Warrior, clapping her hands. “You needn’t worry, my friend! It’ll only be a temporary measure until we are able to find a chirurgeon who is able to deal with the tooth for you!”

For all that Tataru had no prowess in battle thus far, her courage knew no bounds as she stared down the Warrior of Light. So bullheaded was she that she was eventually able to outlast his gaze.

The Warrior ducked his head, scowling off to the side. The very aether around him seemed more forlorn now, lending to him a startlingly pathetic air that was only accentuated by his near-nakedness--and Alphinaud had had enough of this.

“I shall request Count Edmont for his assistance in procuring the necessary chirurgeon posthaste. Pray excuse me,” Alphinaud was swift to volunteer, and he departed from the room with as quick a pace that he could manage before he burst out into peals of laughter. Indeed, he found himself far too mirthful to be able to explain himself to the Count once he had found the man, but surely Alphinaud could be forgiven his lack of composure.

The Warrior of Light, defender and saviour of Eorzea, had been defeated by a mere cavity!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look: when you rarely get to indulge in sweets, you cram them into your mouth by the handful wherever possible.


	28. Music and Dance [Aymeric]

For all that the Warrior of Light had scowled at and condemned the thought of it, he was, unexpectedly, a most competent dancer. Aymeric smiled as they twirled in tight circles around the restricted space of his study, following along with the gentle music from the orchestrion.

“One-two-three,” he murmured softly, on repeat, guiding the Warrior through the steps of a common Ishgardian waltz. A step back, a step forward, and a turn; it was the simplest dance Aymeric could think of that the Warrior would be able to follow without much instruction.

The viera’s countenance was as stone whenever he chanced a look at his face, but there was concession in the loose grip he had upon Aymeric’s hand and the way he continued to take the steps that he’d only just learnt.

With surprising grace, the viera ducked under their arms as Aymeric raised them. The elezen laughed in delight, surprised that the Warrior had so obliged him in the act of spinning him around. More surprising was the implication: the viera had received instruction in dance before, if he had been able to take the silent instruction.

“You’ve danced before, I take it?” Aymeric asked, the smile remaining upon his lips. By the flat stare he received in response, the Warrior was not nearly as amused as he.

They rounded around the office twice before they spoke again.

“You enjoy this.” The viera stated, though the inflection of his words was almost questioning.

“It was one of the few things I enjoyed learning, beyond the sword and the various dialects of Eorzea,” Aymeric divulged. They swayed back and forth across the wooden floors of his study, and he spun them around when they approached too closely a wall. “And it was a respectable activity for a lord’s heir, minor though the house may be.”

The Warrior’s crystalline eyes were affixed to his countenance, and Aymeric took care to avoid his gaze. Once captured, he would be unable to look away--and it would be an utmost shame to end this dance with an embarrassing tumble on a chair leg or carpet.

“Alphinaud,” the viera said softly, “taught me to dance.”

There was no need for the Warrior to add the reason for the young elezen to have taught him how to dance. Ul’dah, though distant from Ishgard, was yet a sore that had yet to heal on the Warrior’s heart.

They fell into silence, and soon, the song came to a stop.

Regretfully, Aymeric allowed the Warrior to reclaim his own hands, and watched as he took a step back, reclaiming too his own space. The viera clenched his fists, fingertips rubbing at his palms.

“Thank you for indulging me,” Aymeric murmured. “It was a distraction most appreciated.”

The viera inclined his head ever so slightly.

“--Tomorrow.” The Warrior stated. “I would not be opposed…”

“Opposed to what, my friend?” Aymeric asked.

That stern and chiselled countenance had taken on an expression most peculiar. Verdant eyes looked off to the side, and for a moment, the bold archer had turned meek. “--To further instruction. On dance.”

The smile that bloomed across Aymeric’s lips could not physically widen any farther.

“It would be my honour.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aymeric strikes me as an extremely romantic man, thriving more from aesthetic and romantic interaction than anything overtly sexual. He and the viera complement each other in that way, preferring company over physicality.


	29. Windup Haurchefant [Haurchefant]

The mechanical movements of the windup facsimile of himself was most uncanny.

Haurchefant did his utmost to not let his discomfort show, even as the Warrior crouched before the mammet and poked at its head roughly. The doll cared not for the rough treatment, and brandished its small sword in an ineffectual display of offense. The Warrior tipped it over with a push of his fingers.

There was a smile hiding in the corners of the Warrior’s lips; he had apparently found amusement in how the doll seemed ignorant of its now-prone state, and continued to move as if it were walking on flat ground.

“--I should hope that such treatment of the... ah, windup doll does not reflect your opinion of me,” Haurchefant remarked, even as the Warrior continued to push the poppet around.

Eventually, the doll ceased moving, its face set into a proud smile, its palm pressed to its chest.

The Warrior snorted, derision clear on every facet of his chiselled countenance. “It is nothing like you.”

“Ah--but I would argue that it looks almost identical to myself. It is… rather unsettling, I must admit,” Haurchefant stated. He opened his mouth to speak more--but promptly shut his mouth once more when the Warrior grabbed the toy by its head and lifted it up.

The futile flailing of the Haurchefant doll was rather difficult for the living Haurchefant to watch.

The hint of smile on the viera’s face had become a full-fledged one.

“Pathetic.” The viera murmured, a rather savage form of satisfaction lacing his words. He tossed the doll to the side, and stood back up to regain his height of seven fulms. “It is nothing like you.” The doll had hit a corner of a pillar, and lay broken on the floor, making a most horrifying whine as the mechanical parts within gave up life.

Haurchefant blinked at the backhanded insult--or was it a compliment?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Later, the Warrior would corner Serendipity and question her about the creation of the Windup Haurchefant, and ask her why she recreated Haurchefant so awfully. Of course, with far less words than that, and a lot more gesticulations with a fist.


	30. Tempered in Battle [Aymeric]

The Warrior was far more glorious in battle than he was outside of it.

The flames that had licked the field had painted him such that he looked as if had stepped out of mythos into the living world. Those dancing licks of fire had cast a halo around him of yellows and reds; he had looked unreal.

Swathed in embers and blood, he had lunged at his opponents with the ferocity of a coeurl; he had been as deadly as marbols; his eyes shining with the might of Halone.

It had since become fact that the Warrior of Light was leagues above in strength than the whole host of the mightiest of all of Eorzea.

His defeat of General Raubahn in combat, against the Bull of Ala Mhigo himself--it had been stunning. Each motion the Warrior made had been tapestry; the flex of his arm as he had swung his blade, the clash of steel against steel as man and viera had come head to head in a battle of pure strength...

Aymeric had known not the Warrior knew how to use swords just as proficiently as he did the bow.

The mere thought of him brought to life levin within his veins. The Warrior was beautiful, and to be unaffected by the sight of him in battle was to be devoid of feeling, of any sense whatsoever.

Standing tall and proud in the colours of Ishgard, his arms and chest clad in Fortemps steel--he was a mythical warrior come alive.

When they had returned from the Gates of Judgement, Aymeric had reached out, taken hold of the Warrior within his hands and pulled him in. It was by the grace of the Warrior’s indulgence that he could do so.

Aymeric could taste upon his tongue sweat and blood, of the ichor of soldiers that had yielded before the Warrior and its queer and sour flavour. He could stop not the sounds of rapture escaping his mouth as the Warrior's hands held him, holding him close with the broad plane of his palm.

The heat that bloomed in his chest in the moments that followed surmounted into a roaring blaze, consuming him from the inside out. There could be nothing that would quench these flames but the Warrior’s touch. He had been tempered by his touch, and made supplicant in the wake of his skin and tongue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The peoples of Ishgard have been shaped and designed in the architecture of war, and there's nothing quite as arresting as the sight of a warrior above all others cutting through a battlefield to emerge victorious.
> 
> Also, Ratatoskr's blood has certainly affected this to a certain extent, as Ser Aymeric has so found out.


	31. Gift [The Warrior]

Haurchefant's delight had been expected, but the extent to which he crowed in ecstatic joy had not been.

His countenance was utterly radiant with an ecstasy that was hard to bear. The viera turned his eyes away, even as the lord laughed and eagerly questioned him.

"What kind of gift is it?" Haurchefant said excitedly, nimble fingers tearing at the paper wrapping around the box that the Warrior had thrust into his arms without any ceremony or preamble whatsoever. "Ooh! Oh… hm. What _is_ this, Warrior?" The confusion on the elezen's countenance was evident as he stared into the box.

The Warrior crossed his arms, betraying none of his emotions.

The elezen reached in, pulling out the object within the box. It was a thin black stylus, strangely shaped with its rounded corners and smooth enamel coating. From bow to stern of the simple oblong shape, it spanned a mere fifteen ilms. There was a single seam bisecting the style into two unevenly distributed parts. No other feature was there to betray its purpose.

"Garlond made it." The Warrior said finally. "It is a quill." Supposedly. Unlike the quills of convention, it was made with neither feather nor bone, and no nib was there to be seen. No doubt it was a mad prototype spawned from the mind of the genius inventor, and the Warrior had no intention of figuring it out.

That was Haurchefant's problem now that the viera had passed the supposed quill over to the elezen.

The elezen seemed fascinated by the puzzle the quill presented, and worked his fingers against the seam in the enamel, pulling at the two halves with a delicacy birthed by uncertainty. The stylus yielded no answers to the puzzled Haurchefant, who hummed and continued to tug and push at its surface. Eventually, he found that they separated when he twisted the two halves in opposite directions.

Thus, the quill's nib was revealed: an elegant thing wrought in gold and some form of steel.

Cradling the quill in his hand, he mimicked the act of writing with it, a smile quickly making itself known upon his countenance. The balance of it was right, mayhap, or the aesthetic of it was pleasing to him.

"Does this need inking?" Haurchefant asked aloud, eyes wide with wonder as he turned the quill to examine its every angle.

The Warrior gave him no answer, and Haurchefant swiftly grabbed hold of a scrap piece of parchment, scrawling excitedly. A sound of delight accompanied the sight of black ink blooming across the page.

Despite himself, the Warrior found himself curious. He had not the faintest clue how the quill could hold ink within itself, nor how said ink did not flow out the moment the cap was released. The Garlean inventor was most certainly deserving of his title.

"This is a most wonderful gift, my friend!" Haurchefant said, upon capping the mechanical quill once more. "You must convey my heartfelt compliments to Master Garlond too, for creating such a clever tool. Never again will the drying of ink hinder the flow of my words! Though I would be very interested to know how to replace what ink there is within..."

The Warrior nodded once, and Haurchefant's smile softened.

"Thank you again, my dearest friend," the elezen crooned. "I shall squander not your generosity, and pen you many a letter while on your journeys across the land. Your absence shall surely be less missed when I fill the hole you leave in my life with my words, and I would be glad to know my thoughts reach you wherever you go..."

\--Damn elezen and their words.

The Warrior scowled darkly at the ever-smiling Haurchefant, and he turned to leave.

“Await my first letter, Warrior!” Haurchefant called out, even as he departed from the elezen’s office. “I shall fill it with my longing for your return!”

The Warrior slammed the door behind him in his pique, though it could not drown out the sound of Haurchefant’s laughter, high and delighted as he ever was when he had managed to fluster the Warrior so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cid nan Garlond's inventions tend to be the result of one of two causes: a lust for advancement in technology, or the indulgence of slothfulness. The prototype of the mechanical quill, dubbed as a "pen" by the masterful Garlean himself, was birthed as a result of the latter of the two causes.
> 
> When questioned about his reasons for making the pen, Cid replied, "My arm gets tired reaching for the inkpot."


	32. Wielding Words [Aymeric]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of Ch.7 (Romantic Aspirations) and Ch.11 (Intimacy and Lack Thereof).

The Lord Commander wielded his words as a weapon, just as much as he did his sword and his bow. He had learnt to be as devastating with his speeches as his sword, for it was a necessity to rise to his current position. Politics could be not won by the blade, but by the swaying of hearts and minds.

As such, Aymeric privately believed that between his weapons of his choice, it was his voice that was the most devastating of the three. And it was this private belief that had him come to this:

The Warrior and he, standing three fulms apart on the archery field. A hundred paces away were their targets, already riddled with arrows previously fired.

“--A most masterful display, my dearest friend,” Aymeric complimented, keeping his eyes not upon the targets beyond them but upon the Warrior’s back, broad and strong as he held his bow drawn taut. Though his voice was softly spoken, he had no doubt that the Warrior could hear him. “Ne’er before have I seen any draw as fast as you.”

The irate twitch of the Warrior’s ear was the only sign of disturbance that betrayed the Warrior’s stoic countenance. The breeze caressed the frost-tipped hair upon his head, lending him a divine sentiment that had previously only been captured in literature and art.

“Deft hands a deft warrior makes indeed, and mayhap your hands are the most clever across all of Eorzea.” Aymeric continued. “They are perfectly shaped for this purpose--for whatever purpose with which you use your hands. You have shaped Eorzea with those hands, and you cradle the love of the populace in your palms. Tis no wonder that you are heralded as the Champion of Light. So broad your fingers span, that they could do and hold so much...”

The Warrior let loose his arrow, and they both watched how the arrow pierced the target at its side, far from the centre where the rest of the arrows had clustered. There was a tension in the viera’s shoulders, and he stood as tall as he could. His arms had fallen to his sides, his hand clutching his bow tightly.

Had the viera been a man of such words, Aymeric was certain that he would have cursed. As it was, the viera remained silent, and the elezen revelled in the distraction that he had caused in the Warrior. He was base enough to derive such pleasure that his words alone had been enough.

“In addition, there is art in the manner of your stance,” Aymeric said softly, his satisfaction far too audible in his voice. “Some inexplicable elegance in your form that bears to be admired eternally. You are a thousand blessings confined within mortal form.”

“Quiet, de Borel.” The Warrior’s gruff voice came, terse and harsh. “We came to practice, not speak.”

“Is my admiration too loud?” Aymeric wondered, coming closer slowly. “Shall I think of your praises instead?”

The Warrior turned to face him, and his crystalline eyes were bright, verdant as the pines of Dravania’s highlands. With his countenance fully revealed to his sight, he could spy the faintest trace of red dusting the high points of his cheeks, and the tension in the lines of his neck.

“No. Neither.” The sharp line of his jaw could cut through steel.

Aymeric smiled. “Ask not the impossible from me. You inspire admiration with each act you commit, Warrior.”

The disgusted scoff from the viera dissuaded him not as he stepped further forward. He had learnt that such emotion was a front, hiding the affection that lay beneath the Warrior’s stoic surface.

Indeed, such outward display of disgust was belied by the manner in which the viera bent down as he approached, allowing Aymeric to take hold of his countenance between his hands to press his lips to his crown.

“A veritable fount of wonder you are,” Aymeric murmured softly into the white of his hair. “A gift from the Twelve--and my most treasured friend. Glad am I of your presence in my life, and all the more wretched am I when you leave to do your holy work elsewhere."

"Selfish," the viera remarked quietly.

"Truthful. Honest," Aymeric refuted, releasing the Warrior and allowing him to straighten back up. He smiled. "In love."

In that instant, the Warrior flinched, tensing up in an overt motion. His crystalline eyes were wide, and that stoic countenance had broken into something resembling shock.

"Shall I remind you again?" Aymeric asked. "I could never tire of announcing mine ardour for you. Menphina's arrow had pierced my breast when I laid mine eyes upon you, and Nymeia weaved my heart into your tapestry. I could not be whole without you, Warrior mine."

So overwhelmed, the viera lowered his eyes once more. Fluster became of him, dusting his chiselled features in a flattering rose's red. "It is--unnecessary," he murmured. "What is obvious needs not to be said."

An invitation was extended in the rising of his arms; Aymeric came in and took hold of his forearms, embracing him in the manner he preferred.

The trembling of the Warrior's breath upon his lips spoke all that had been left unsaid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is absolute nonsense. Let me live in suspended disbelief that the Warrior and Aymeric can go on dates and flirt and be happy together, okay


	33. Brace of Hens [Alphinaud]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reference to Ch.23 (Return).  
> Warnings for graphic descriptions of hunting creatures for meat and PTSD-like episodes.

Hunting with the Warrior was quite the experience.

Alphinaud was almost too tense to even breath as the Warrior stalked forward, not even a rustle of his clothes giving him away to his quarry. He felt as if a loud, bumbling fool beside this silent hunter, who showed not a single sign of discomfort in his crouched state.

They had made their way through the plains of the Sea of Clouds for what must have been five bells, following some unknown trail that Alphinaud could not detect no matter how hard he tried. The Warrior seemed to believe it was there, and followed it doggedly--until somehow, they had unerringly came across a flock of gastornis. 

It was rather humbling to crouch there, fearing that even his breath would break the tense silence that had fallen over the two of them while the Warrior moved forward with the swiftness of a serpent.

He was confidence personified, a mortal recreation of the silent and sly prowess of Oschon. He was the vagrant hunter, eager to catch his hapless prey.

Alphinaud tensed further as the Warrior drew his bow back, the point of his arrow aimed true at the heart of their quarry.

For all of his knowledge, his mind and his strategems, the Warrior far surpassed him in his martial prowess. Even in the simple hunt for gastornis, fat birds that could fly not far, Alphinaud was but a bairn, stumbling upon clumsy feet with nothing to show for his efforts but mud upon his palms.

Swiftly did the arrow fly when the Warrior finally let it loose, and the gastornis let out a dying shriek, startling its brethren to take flight.

The viera, in one swift motion, returned to his full height. His bow was unstrung, slung over his shoulder within the quiver. The gastornis continued to cry out, vainly struggling against the arrow--and its piercing cries were horrid to the ears.

Unbidden, he was reminded of the man that had screamed for death,  _ Alphinaud's _ death.

He froze, breath caught in his throat.

It wasn't until a hand roughly nudged his shoulder that he breathed, sharply inhaling as the world came back in colour.

"It is yet alive." Alphinaud noted weakly, hesitantly getting up when the Warrior gestured impatiently for him to follow. "You… Where are we going?"

He could feel revulsion growing in his chest as the Warrior moved forth. The Warrior, great though he may be, was not a kind man. He was not gentle in manner nor disposition. Were they to wait for the creature to die before they took it to camp? It was--terrible, unethical to the greatest degree. The creature was suffering, and it was going to die in a most tortured of manner for the sole fact that they had decided to hunt that day.

"Are you--? What are you doing?"

The Warrior had crouched down beside the creature, who let out even more panicked sounds with the large being that stood over it. Increasingly loud, increasingly violent, the high pitched shriek of the gastornis shook him to the core. It was finally silenced when the Warrior drew a blade across its neck, his countenance blank and hands steady and now dyed red.

Alphinaud raised his hand to his mouth, bile rising in his throat.

_ \--I'll kill you! _ The gurgling screams from his memories yet echoed in his mind.

"Lordling or not, you eat the same as the rest of man. Give thanks to whatever god you believe in," the Warrior stated brusquely. "You will be fed tonight. Be glad of it."

The knife he had used was wiped against the grass clean of blood and sheathed once more. The gastornis was grabbed by its limbs, held upside down, and crimson rivulets trickled from its wounds to stain the ground.

When the Warrior stood up, Alphinaud remained silent, wan and pale, following him with a lingering sense of horror.

His excitement at being invited to hunt had been killed as swiftly as the bird. The beauty of the Sea of Clouds could do naught to soften the disgust that roiled within his stomach, nor could the Warrior's presence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Warrior is ungentle in the way he handles emotions, but he does his best to meet Alphinaud and his needs. He is harsh because he believes it to be the best method of getting to him, and helping him through his trauma.


	34. Foreign Tongues [Haurchefant]

It was, in Haurchefant's opinion, terribly unfair that the Warrior could understand every word that he spoke in whatever language he used.

Would that he could experience the ardour of a lover who could understand not his words but his sentiments instead! As it was, whether he spoke in High Ishgardian or Common Eorzean alike, the Warrior found no mystery in his words.

In fact, it seemed that the Warrior found far too much entertainment in turning things around on him, and spoke in languages that Haurchefant could not place.

"What language is this?" He demanded, and the Warrior replied in his quiet way, foreign syllables falling from his tongue in a most becoming of ways. It was a strange accent, exotic in its unfamiliarity, and it was accentuated by the slowness of his speech. He said each alien word as if he tasted them, thought carefully placed in each sound.

The hint of a smirk upon his lips bespoke of the sheer entertainment value he found in Haurchefant's frustration.

The Warrior could have been saying anything to him, insulting him or complimenting him to his face, and he would have not even a hint as to whether it was the former or the latter. Then again, he may have replied to Haurchefant's demand, but in that same language that Haurchefant knew not.

"You must think yourself as quite cunning!" Haurchefant exclaimed, continuing in his exaggerated outrage. "That speaking in a language that I know not leaves you at a higher vantage to mine?"

Indolence was the written language of the Warrior's body in the way he leaned back, raising his arm to rest his head upon his hand. A short phrase left his lips, fluting sounds emerging from the depths of his throat and the tip of his tongue. Impossible sounds that were so alien to Haurchefant's Ishgardian; he could hardly distinguish syllables that could possibly connote to individual words.

He could have said absolute nonsense in that language of his, and Haurchefant would have known not. Regardless, it was clear that the Warrior would not give him any understanding of what he had been saying.

Haurchefant let out a sigh, fond and affectionate. "I suppose it does indeed," he remarked. Moving forward, he knelt before the Warrior, looking up at his now-cautious countenance. "I am laid beneath you and helpless to your whims."

In that instance, the viera froze.

Such suggestive language was unambiguous. The grin on Haurchefant's face only exemplified his meaning.

"Greystone," the viera hissed, his voice as textured as gravel as he stared down at Haurchefant. Such vitriol was accompanied by the parting of his legs, allowing Haurchefant to slip between them and kneel by the settee upon which the Warrior lay.

The viera shivered imperceptibly as Haurchefant's hands came to rest upon his thighs.

"Warrior," he replied warmly, smiling. "What are your whims?"

The viera fell silent, turmoil evident in the clouding of his verdant eyes. When he finally spoke, it was in a phrase of that unknown language, hesitant and quiet.

So left to the ambiguity of the phrase, Haurchefant could only postulate futilely what it was that the Warrior had requested of him. And mayhap, that had been the Warrior's intent. To allow Haurchefant to act as he willed.

Haurchefant leaned forth and he kissed the Warrior's sternum. Regardless of the tongue with which the viera spoke, the soft groan that left his lips spoke all that he needed to say. This was welcomed; this was wanted, and Haurchefant had not misinterpreted his words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elezen are far too cunning and opportunistic for their own good. The viera can resist for only so long and to only a certain extent.
> 
> I like to imagine that the viera speak in a language similar to Amazonian tribes, where trilling and popping is prominent in their language.


	35. Ascent [Aymeric]

The Warrior's chuckling was audible even over the roar of the wind in their ears. Aymeric would have delighted over the mirth so loudly expressed had he not been holding onto the frail leather of the saddle that kept him safely affixed to the steed, eyes wide in terror as they soared over the earth a hundred fulms above.

Aymeric had felt discomfort enough upon airships made of sturdy wood and metal. But this… thin leather upon the back of a supposedly-tame horse made of water aether? How could a being such as this fly? By what power, aetheric or not, could it resist the pull of the earth and carry the weight of two fully grown men?

The most burning question of all was this: by what exact folly or fae magic had he decided to agree to this? They soared even higher, until the very clouds were their cloak and the mist made hazy the earth below.

Ahead of them, Alphinaud rode upon the back of a dragon, safe as one could be while travelling through Sohm Al. The Warrior and himself however were held, so to speak, within the hands of an aetheric being that could dissipate within a moment’s notice when it had run out of energy.

The utterly visceral terror that gripped him abated not, even when the Warrior closed one of his hands over his fists in a poor attempt at a comforting gesture. Aymeric was not comforted, and he would not be comforted until he was upon the ground once more.

Aymeric closed his eyes, and attempted not to shudder as the steed beneath them let out a fearsome sound. He leaned forward, pressing his mien to the Warrior’s back, attempting to draw whatever courage he could from his broad shoulders—but there was none to be found, for the Warrior let out another laugh.

“The Churning Mists are ahead,” was announced in a voice that could barely be heard over the roaring wind. The hand over his own tightened. “It awaits. Look.”

As if the gods themselves heard him, all sound suddenly ceased.

The wind that had battered them so had stopped, and they soared above the clouds, unhindered by the elements. It was startling enough that Aymeric pulled back, opening his eyes.

What lay before him was splendour that he had never seen before; islands floating above the sky that were rich with life and rocks that glowed with crystal. Mountains and manmade constructs rose impossibly high, white and pristine in blatant contradiction to the history of Ishgard and standing as eternal testiment to peace between elezen and dragon. Spiralling high were tines of ivory and the soft face of saint Shiva, whom had brought that original peace to their people. This foreign land was bathed in the gold of the sunset; the dying day dripped amber and ochre and ruby upon all that lived there, a bold herald to the deep blue of dusk.

All this, he saw upon the back of a steed of aether, held by the Warrior of Light.

By some unknown command, the steed swooped down, turning lazily through the air to allow Aymeric yet another angle by which to admire the horizon, until they landed upon the rock where Alphinaud awaited.

The hand was withdrawn from his own, and the Warrior’s laughter was buried beneath a stoic countenance once more. Aymeric was not given the time to miss the sensation of the Warrior, for he was immediately beset upon by the young Leveilleur.

“What say you about the Churning Mists, Ser Aymeric?” The boy asked, smiling smugly at the wonder that yet clung to Aymeric’s countenance. “What are your first impressions?”

The Warrior remained upon the steed, even as Aymeric unsteadily climbed off, walking forward to the edge of the cliff before them. He looked out upon the lands, taking in yet again its strange and stirring sights.

“It is… impossibly beautiful,” Aymeric said finally. Looking over at the Warrior, who sat astride his mount, he continued wryly: “Indescribably so, and my heart is made glad to be here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do I lowkey headcanon Aymeric to be uncomfortable with air travel? Yes.


	36. Eternal Devotion [Tataru]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to think of this as a continuation of Ch.3 (Cocoa), Ch.18 (Sweet Dust) and Ch.27 (Teeth).

The whimsical expression that crossed the Warrior’s countenance had not gone unnoticed. Tataru watched how those verdant eyes followed the meandering path taken by the brides down from the steps of the Vault, who passed them by with laughter upon their smiling lips and eyes that saw no other; he saw how a peculiar twist of his lips had appeared, giving him the air of— _longing?_ Contemplation? Did he wish to be married too? Or was it simply curiosity?

If it was indeed envy that so painted his face, then the Warrior was a far more romantic creature than she had given him credit for.

She walked on over to join him at the railing, a cheerful grin set upon her face. Hearing her approach, he glanced down, cocking an eyebrow at her as a silent prompt for her to speak.

“Weddings are notoriously expensive,” she remarked lightly. “It’s one of the reasons why I haven’t been actively looking for a partner myself—it’s hard enough keeping on top of the books for the Scions, but to manage my own coin for mine own wedding? It would hardly be a task for solely myself! I could hardly scrounge up the funds for mine own one, but plan a wedding ceremony fit for the Warrior of Light? That would have fees most exorbitant, one that not one man could pay!”

The Warrior let out a choked sound, eyes bulging in his surprise. It sent Tataru into peals of laughter, reaching up to pat him consolingly upon his hand.

“Though having said that, I do believe that Count Edmont would be most likely provide you a dowry of sorts though you are clearly not inclined towards any sort of femininity; he _has_ said that he considers you as if one of his sons, has he not? As such, you needn’t worry about the cost!” Tataru continued relentlessly, smiling up at the stony-eyed viera. “Though by my reckoning, he would be even more delighted by the prospect of wedding his favourite son most auspiciously to the most powerful warrior in all of Eorzea. You could plan for the most ostentatious and fashionable of ceremonies, and he should hardly blink an eye at the cost!”

The Warrior was far too discomposed to offer any more amusing reactions, but the glower he sent her was most revealing of his thoughts on the matter. Mayhap it was embarrassment that he had been so easily caught out by Tataru's discerning eye. Then again, it could have just been irritation.

“Tell me, Warrior—what has you looking so forlornly at couples leaving the Vault?” She asked slyly. “Has Lord Haurchefant not spoken to you of matrimony? Or mayhap—he _has_ , and some manner of conflict arose because of it?”

A litany of possible events flashed through her mind, and her jaw went slack at the sheer endless number of possibilities. The most distressing these was the one that she voiced:

“Don’t tell me… Did you tell him _no?”_ Tataru gasped out, scandalised.

The viera pushed himself away from the railing, staring down at her with furrowed brows upon that most lovely of countenances. “It is none of your business.” He stated gruffly. He paused, before he added more quietly, “Your mind is far too full of fiction.”

So discouraged from her line of questioning, Tataru remained behind as the Warrior strode off, returning to the Fortemps Manor briskly. Almost too briskly, as if he was escaping her. Her countenance turned thoughtful.

“He didn’t tell me I was wrong… How interesting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Warrior’s interest in the newlywed couple was born out of a(n one-sided) conversation he had with Haurchefant about weddings, primarily centred around the food used to celebrate one’s wedding. In other words, the Warrior was wistfully thinking about wedding cakes.
> 
> Haurchefant definitely used this conversation thread as an attempt to segue into something more with the Warrior, but we’ll have to see how that turned out.


	37. Desert Heat [Haurchefant]

The viera had never shown much discomfort in the cold. It would have made sense that he would have suffered far more greatly in the heat--and yet, he stood there, utterly bemused by the Thanalan sun!

Sweat-slicked and parched from their walk so far, Haurchefant continued to stay beneath the shade of the parasol that Tataru had so graciously (and rather smugly, if he were to be honest) lent him, unwilling to venture out into the heat longer than he must needed.

It was almost torturous; he could understand not how the Warrior was not burning alive so dressed in leathers and metal and covered by his fur, burdened by a large pack upon his back.

They continued to trek across parched soil where only cactuar and peiste roamed, with no other life to be seen--not even the amalj’aa seemed to roam these parts.

"I believed that we came to Thanalan for respite. I have experienced nothing so far that could be construed in any manner whatsoever as respite," Haurchefant remarked, his breathing far too heavy for a man of his fitness. The fatigue brought on by the heat was nothing like he had ever prepared for--even prior the Calamity and the eternal snow, Coerthas had always ever been brisk and cool.

Politely, the Warrior chose not to remark upon the whinging lilt of his words. "It is almost sundown," he said instead. "We must hurry."

Hurry towards what? Haurchefant could see no landmark nor settlement nearby that the Warrior could have been so interested in. All around them, the sole feature of any sort of interest was a flat tabletop of a hill, sparsely decorated with dried bushes. Even that was fairly unremarkable, in Haurchefant's opinion.

In the Warrior's opinion, he seemed rather interested in that geological feature. He led their way up that very hill, and Haurchefant being the fool that he was dutifully followed his every step.

Mercifully, the Warrior soon stopped by a large rock formation that offered Haurchefant the chance to finally lower his arm and close the parasol.

Retrieving a kerchief from his pockets, Haurchefant wiped at his brow in a futile and desperate attempt to cool down. Chancing a look towards his companion, he found that the Warrior's countenance was set into something soft, watching him in return with crystalline eyes full of indescribable emotion.

Had the heat not been so stifling would Haurchefant have leaned in to partake in that not-smile. Nevertheless, he allowed himself to enjoy the image of the Warrior's contentment, reveling in the way that he turned not away.

"We wait here." The Warrior stated. He lowered the pack from his shoulders, reaching in to remove something from within: a bottle of some sort of liquid. With a twist of his aether and an ice crystal, the bottle turned cold to the touch. He held it out for Haurchefant to take.

Unable to resist the lure of an icy drink in the heat, he took hold of the bottle with a fervent verbal outpouring of gratitude. He then swiftly took long draughts of the beverage, pleasantly surprised that it was sweet and floral in taste; a distant tartness amplified the fresh taste of the liquid. Ere he finished the drink in one pass, he lowered the bottle from his lips.

Unprompted, the Warrior stated, "Sugar and citrus."

"Ah, so that was the source of that sour flavour." Haurchefant wiped his mouth with the kerchief he had yet to stow away, holding out the bottle for the viera to take. The Warrior took it back, stowing the drink away once more. Clearly, he didn’t feel nearly as parched as Haurchefant did. “T’was most thoughtful and gracious of you. My thanks, Warrior!”

Invigorated by the taste and refreshing coolness of the drink, Haurchefant took the time to look around their surroundings.

Much like in Coerthas, the sun set extraordinarily swiftly once it made its descent and kissed the horizon. Already, shadows blanketed the desert around them, and he could see, distantly, the stirring of small brave creatures now that the heat was no longer besetting the sands.

Night had fallen upon them, and would leave them blind once the sun’s rays had been masked by the earth.

“Might I ask why you brought us out here, my friend?” Haurchefant asked curiously.

If they were to observe the creatures of Thanalan, the desert night would hardly give them opportunity to actually view them, unless they were to roam about with torches to light their way. Of course, with such an obvious beacon, all the manner of beings in the desert would flee before them.

If they had intended on watching the sun fall: that moment had long since passed. The skies now were hued a dusky rose, mixing in with the encroaching cover of deepest violets.

The Warrior glanced at him, before grabbing his pack from where he had deposited it. Though the night was nigh, his eyes yet glowed with some inner fire, vivid and stunning in their emerald hue. “Come,” he said quietly. “You will see it soon.”

Haurchefant, once more, followed the Warrior blindly. In this case, it was becoming most literal. They ascended the tabletop hill, slowly and in a meandering manner unlike their previous brisk hike. All lights were absent with them so far from Ul’dah and any manner of civilisation.

The soft moonlight only barely outlined the ground before him, and he found that in order to prevent himself from falling, he had to keep his eyes upon his feet, paying little to no attention to what was in front of him.

It was no surprise that then he stumbled, bumping into the viera’s back when the man had suddenly stopped. Haurchefant’s apologies went ignored by the Warrior, who turned to look at him. It was not in irritation, as Haurchefant had anticipated.

The Warrior’s lips were set into an arresting smile, all the more captivating for its rarity.

In the faint light of the moon, he could see the Warrior gesture upwards. He looked up as bidden—and he saw it then, the skies above were startlingly vast and full of stars that shot across in streaks of brilliant light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I say that Haurchefant too gets date rights. The viera is surprisingly deft at romance, for all that he claims otherwise.


	38. Faith [Alphinaud]

The Warrior was, surprisingly, a man of no faith. He believed not in the Twelve nor in Doman spirits, neither did he care for the gods of the beastmen.

Though upon a second thought, it would make sense that he would care not for deities when he so regularly slayed them. Ifrit, Titan and Garuda; Ramuh, Leviathan, and King Moglin; the heretic saint Shiva herself and Bahamut who had been so intrinsically linked with the Calamity; it was a list most impressive, and it only grew.

Alphinaud wondered then, in what did the Warrior believe? To whom did the Warrior pray?

In their era of uncertainty and strife, he could think not of one who did not cling fervently to some higher power in a desperate attempt for salvation. Alphinaud would admit, for all his blatant lack of piety, he believed most heartedly in the patron of Sharlayan and His influence over his life.

Althyk guided him in his path, and showed him His way.

Minfilia herself had been devout in her worship of Hydaelyn. Was the Warrior, too, a prophet of the Mother Crystal? He held the Echo just as strongly as the Antecedent herself, surely he would be Her devout?

And yet, throughout the moons and seasons of their acquaintanceship, he had not once heard an utterance of prayer to the gods from his lips, nor any semblance of piety when passing they a church or monument to the Twelve. Never had he spoken of the Mother Crystal in any respectful manner, calling Her by distant and cold descriptors.

Could, then, the Warrior be atheist?

It was a more startling thought than he would expect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always find it annoying how they assume that the Warrior knows, or cares, about the Twelve. Allow my WoL to be atheist, agnostic, or uninterested in religion.


	39. Firmament [Aymeric]

The restoration of Ishgard was no little task, and scores upon scores of gatherers and crafters alike came to aid in the rebuilding of Ishgard's walls.

In the midst of the bustling stood a lone viera, still and unmoving as he observed those around him.

Aymeric approached the viera, who turned not to acknowledge his approach. His countenance was of the same stone upon which Ishgard was grown, chiselled into the semblance of a man. Stonemasons dotted the realm; it was quite possible that he had been sculpted so by one of them.

"Warrior," He murmured quietly in greeting. "I see you have taken interest in the restoration of our city."

A swift nod was the sole response from the Warrior.

They both looked out upon the masses under the direction of the master foreman, coming together in a display of cooperation and coordination that Aymeric would have been hard-pressed to train into his own men. Such tireless zeal for the recovery of Ishgard's glory was inspiring, and yet Aymeric had not the means to express such inspiration.

"Would I have had the skills for it, I would have joined in," Aymeric revealed, a wistful smile upon his lips. "Unfortunately, I would be more of a hindrance than any help whatsoever." It would have been extremely fulfilling to have been able to help rebuild Ishgard with his own two hands, to know that he had somehow contributed to her very foundation and stones.

The viera snorted quietly.

"Food."

Aymeric looked up in surprised at the nonsequitur. "Pardon me?" He asked.

"They need to be fed." The Warrior's comment was surprisingly firm. "Cooks. Hunters. Merchants. They are required. Expensive to hire them from elsewhere, and I heard talk that ale is running dry at the tavern."

Indeed, the logistics of feeding this entire host was rather imposing. The viera had raised a most excellent point.

The restoration of Ishgard was not dependent solely upon the hands that built her, but on the hands that supported those building her.

"--Mayhap the Temple Knights may assist in that matter," Aymeric remarked thoughtfully. "My thanks, Warrior."

His knights were no strangers to foraging across the icy wastes of Coerthas for food, and with the new access they had to Dravanian lands, harvests would be far more bountiful than in the past… Yes. He would soon draw up rosters to send his men out to forage and hunt and escort merchants to keep the city well supplied with food. They needed not to defend Ishgard's walls against hostile dragons, and his men were surely in need of activity lest they became too restless.

"Have you participated in the rebuilding efforts, my friend?" Aymeric asked ere he got caught up in his thoughts. "Surely you have some manner of skill set to offer the foreman."

The viera glanced over at him, lowering his head to meet Aymeric's gaze. "I hunt. Leatherwork. Join me," he stated quietly. "I would teach you to shoot as I do."

The large recurve bow upon his back drew Aymeric's attention. His prowess with it was undeniable, and Estinien had mentioned, brief though his words had been, how impressed he had been by the viera's marksmanship. According to the former Azure Dragoon, he had been able to snipe unsuspecting gaelicat, small and fleet prey, from over a hundred paces away to feed them well in their travels.

"I would be honoured," Aymeric replied shortly, smiling. "I will be the first to admit, however, that I am not the most skilled with the bow. Well-practiced, yes, but talented I am not. I will not be a spectacular student, I fear."

"You know which end to string a bow." The viera had the slightest of smirks upon his lips. "You will not be worse than Alphinaud."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alphinaud, much later, will figure out that the Warrior had outed him as a poor archer. On an entirely unrelated note, Alphinaud will also figure out that the Warrior is an entirely poor scholar, and cannot wrap his head around the calculations so involved in summoning egi, when Alphinaud challenges him to try.


	40. Rolanberries [Tataru]

Tataru was high up above the ground, and she hummed cheerfully as she meandered through the grove upon the Warrior's broad shoulder.

"Look at how ripe these are!" She exclaimed in wonder, pulling free a rolanberry from a topmost branch and holding it out in front of the Warrior's countenance.

He let out an agreeing sound, and she busied herself with preparing it, discarding bruised skin and stems over her shoulder. She then held the morsel once more to his lips, and he took it after a moment's hesitation. Once more, he hummed, this time a soft and pleased sound.

"It's sweet, I'm guessing," she remarked with a laugh. "Lovely! We should pick a _whole_ bunch and bring it back home to the Rising Stones… we may be able to convince F’lhaminn to bake it into a tart, which I'm sure you will appreciate."

The viera replied not to her teasing words, instead obliging her by stopping whenever she directed him, allowing her to amass an armful of rolanberries, bursting with juicy ripeness.

This outing of theirs into the surrounding areas of Mor Dhona had been most spontaneous, born from Tataru's need to detach herself from her papers and Minfilia's orders that she find someone to accompany her. When Tataru had expressed difficulty climbing the stone paths of the crystal-encrusted mountains, the Warrior had most graciously offered her a perch upon his shoulders, and now here they were:

Picking rolanberries with Tataru sat upon the Warrior as if she were the sultana and the Warrior her most loyal Bull of Ala Mhigo!

She let out a mirthful laugh, heeding not the questioning look the Warrior sent her when he had had to reach up to prevent her from toppling.

"Oh, Warrior, could you have imagined us ever reaching this point when you first came to the Waking Sands?" She asked softly, smiling down at him. "You were so emphatically silent, demanding coin whenever you returned from whatever task Minfilia had convinced you to undertake…"

"I wanted naught to do with your goals. Merely your coin," he agreed. His voice was warm, rich with a hidden fondness that Tataru could only recognise now that he let her.

"When did that change?" She then asked. "When did you decide that we were worth more than just your paid bow?"

He continued to walk, the palm of his gauntlet warm against her leg where he held her steady. His shoulders rose and fell in a shrug.

"Mayhaps I shall never know. I am thankful of it, regardless. You are a most treasured friend of mine, Warrior, and I am glad to have known you," Tataru continued, reaching out with a rolanberry-stained hand to pat the top of his head.

Between his tall ears his frost-tipped hair was thus stained red, and she stifled her giggles at the unintentional mischief.

Instead, she said, "Shall we return? I believe we have enough to make three tarts!"

His nod was firm, and he turned on his heel to return them to Rising Stones. Tataru remained perched upon his shoulder, as triumphant as the Warrior in his endless toils, and was set down only when they had passed the town gates proper.

F’lhaminn was swiftly beckoned to take their bountiful harvest of berries, and the Warrior followed her, mutely excited for his tarts. Tataru returned to her books, smiling privately at the amusing sight of her greatest and tallest friend towering over the gentle miqo’te.

And through it all, the smallest handprint of red stained his crown, where none could see. It would be a secret that only Tataru would be privy to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The viera has the softest of spots for Tataru, and finds it exceedingly difficult to deny her anything.
> 
> Also this will be my last one shot in this collection (unless the ideas bunny starts to make kits once more). Thank you so much for reading this and going through this journey with me!


End file.
